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The Lerouge Case

by Emile Gaboriau · English · Gutenberg #3802 · 713,976 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Lerouge Case

Author: Emile Gaboriau


        
Release date: April 13, 2006 [eBook #3802]
                Most recently updated: October 19, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3802

Credits: Produced by David Moynihan; Dagny; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEROUGE CASE ***
THE LEROUGE CASE

By Emile Gaboriau




CHAPTER I.

On Thursday, the 6th of March, 1862, two days after Shrove Tuesday, five
women belonging to the village of La Jonchere presented themselves at
the police station at Bougival.

They stated that for two days past no one had seen the Widow Lerouge,
one of their neighbours, who lived by herself in an isolated cottage.
They had several times knocked at the door, but all in vain. The
window-shutters as well as the door were closed; and it was impossible
to obtain even a glimpse of the interior.

This silence, this sudden disappearance alarmed them. Apprehensive of
a crime, or at least of an accident, they requested the interference of
the police to satisfy their doubts by forcing the door and entering the
house.

Bougival is a pleasant riverside village, peopled on Sundays by crowds
of boating parties. Trifling offences are frequently heard of in its
neighbourhood, but crimes are rare.

The commissary of police at first refused to listen to the women, but
their importunities so fatigued him that he at length acceded to their
request. He sent for the corporal of gendarmes, with two of his
men, called into requisition the services of a locksmith, and, thus
accompanied, followed the neighbours of the Widow Lerouge.

La Jonchere owes some celebrity to the inventor of the sliding railway,
who for some years past has, with more enterprise than profit, made
public trials of his system in the immediate neighbourhood. It is
a hamlet of no importance, resting upon the slope of the hill which
overlooks the Seine between La Malmaison and Bougival. It is about
twenty minutes’ walk from the main road, which, passing by Rueil and
Port-Marly, goes from Paris to St. Germain, and is reached by a steep
and rugged lane, quite unknown to the government engineers.

The party, led by the gendarmes, followed the main road which here
bordered the river until it reached this lane, into which it turned, and
stumbled over the rugged inequalities of the ground for about a hundred
yards, when it arrived in front of a cottage of extremely modest yet
respectable appearance. This cottage had probably been built by some
little Parisian shopkeeper in love with the beauties of nature; for
all the trees had been carefully cut down. It consisted merely of two
apartments on the ground floor with a loft above. Around it extended a
much-neglected garden, badly protected against midnight prowlers, by
a very dilapidated stone wall about three feet high, and broken and
crumbling in many places. A light wooden gate, clumsily held in its
place by pieces of wire, gave access to the garden.

“It is here,” said the women.

The commissary stopped. During his short walk, the number of his
followers had been rapidly increasing, and now included all the
inquisitive and idle persons of the neighbourhood. He found himself
surrounded by about forty individuals burning with curiosity.

“No one must enter the garden,” said he; and, to ensure obedience, he
placed the two gendarmes on sentry before the entrance, and advanced
towards the house, accompanied by the corporal and the locksmith.

He knocked several times loudly with his leaded cane, first at the door,
and then successively at all the window shutters. After each blow, he
placed his ear against the wood and listened. Hearing nothing, he turned
to the locksmith.

“Open!” said he.

The workman unstrapped his satchel, and produced his implements. He had
already introduced a skeleton key into the lock, when a loud exclamation
was heard from the crowd outside the gate.

“The key!” they cried. “Here is the key!”

A boy about twelve years old playing with one of his companions, had
seen an enormous key in a ditch by the roadside; he had picked it up and
carried it to the cottage in triumph.

“Give it to me youngster,” said the corporal. “We shall see.”

The key was tried, and it proved to be the key of the house.

The commissary and the locksmith exchanged glances full of sinister
misgivings. “This looks bad,” muttered the corporal. They entered the
house, while the crowd, restrained with difficulty by the gendarmes,
stamped with impatience, or leant over the garden wall, stretching their
necks eagerly, to see or hear something of what was passing within the
cottage.

Those who anticipated the discovery of a crime, were unhappily not
deceived. The commissary was convinced of this as soon as he crossed the
threshold. Everything in the first room pointed with a sad eloquence to
the recent presence of a malefactor. The furniture was knocked about,
and a chest of drawers and two large trunks had been forced and broken
open.

In the inner room, which served as a sleeping apartment, the disorder
was even greater. It seemed as though some furious hand had taken a
fiendish pleasure in upsetting everything. Near the fireplace, her face
buried in the ashes, lay the dead body of Widow Lerouge. All one side of
the face and the hair were burnt; it seemed a miracle that the fire had
not caught her clothing.

“Wretches!” exclaimed the corporal. “Could they not have robbed, without
assassinating the poor woman?”

“But where has she been wounded?” inquired the commissary, “I do not see
any blood.”

“Look! here between the shoulders,” replied the corporal; “two fierce
blows, by my faith. I’ll wager my stripes she had no time to cry out.”

He stooped over the corpse and touched it.

“She is quite cold,” he continued, “and it seems to me that she is no
longer very stiff. It is at least thirty-six hours since she received
her death-blow.”

The commissary began writing, on the corner of a table, a short official
report.

“We are not here to talk, but to discover the guilty,” said he to the
corporal. “Let information be at once conveyed to the justice of the
peace, and the mayor, and send this letter without delay to the Palais
de Justice. In a couple of hours, an investigating magistrate can be
here. In the meanwhile, I will proceed to make a preliminary inquiry.”

“Shall I carry the letter?” asked the corporal of gendarmes.

“No, send one of your men; you will be useful to me here in keeping
these people in order, and in finding any witnesses I may want. We
must leave everything here as it is. I will install myself in the other
room.”

A gendarme departed at a run towards the station at Rueil; and the
commissary commenced his investigations in regular form, as prescribed
by law.

“Who was Widow Lerouge? Where did she come from? What did she do? Upon
what means, and how did she live? What were her habits, her morals, and
what sort of company did she keep? Was she known to have enemies? Was
she a miser? Did she pass for being rich?”

The commissary knew the importance of ascertaining all this: but
although the witnesses were numerous enough, they possessed but
little information. The depositions of the neighbours, successively
interrogated, were empty, incoherent, and incomplete. No one knew
anything of the victim, who was a stranger in the country. Many
presented themselves as witnesses moreover, who came forward less to
afford information than to gratify their curiosity. A gardener’s wife,
who had been friendly with the deceased, and a milk-woman with whom
she dealt, were alone able to give a few insignificant though precise
details.

In a word, after three hours of laborious investigation, after having
undergone the infliction of all the gossip of the country, after
receiving evidence the most contradictory, and listened to commentaries
the most ridiculous, the following is what appeared the most reliable to
the commissary.

Twelve years before, at the beginning of 1850, the woman Lerouge had
made her appearance at Bougival with a large wagon piled with furniture,
linen, and her personal effects. She had alighted at an inn, declaring
her intention of settling in the neighbourhood, and had immediately gone
in quest of a house. Finding this one unoccupied, and thinking it would
suit her, she had taken it without trying to beat down the terms, at
a rental of three hundred and twenty francs payable half yearly and in
advance, but had refused to sign a lease.

The house taken, she occupied it the same day, and expended about a
hundred francs on repairs.

She was a woman about fifty-four or fifty-five years of age, well
preserved, active, and in the enjoyment of excellent health. No one
knew her reasons for taking up her abode in a country where she was an
absolute stranger. She was supposed to have come from Normandy, having
been frequently seen in the early morning to wear a white cotton cap.
This night-cap did not prevent her dressing very smartly during the day;
indeed, she ordinarily wore very handsome dresses, very showy ribbons
in her caps, and covered herself with jewels like a saint in a chapel.
Without doubt she had lived on the coast, for ships and the sea recurred
incessantly in her conversation.

She did not like speaking of her husband who had, she said, perished
in a shipwreck. But she had never given the slightest detail. On one
particular occasion she had remarked, in presence of the milk-woman and
three other persons, “No woman was ever more miserable than I during my
married life.” And at another she had said, “All new, all fine! A new
broom sweeps clean. My defunct husband only loved me for a year!”

Widow Lerouge passed for rich, or at the least for being very well off
and she was not a miser. She had lent a woman at La Malmaison sixty
francs with which to pay her rent, and would not let her return them.
At another time she had advanced two hundred francs to a fisherman of
Port-Marly. She was fond of good living, spent a good deal on her food,
and bought wine by the half cask. She took pleasure in treating her
acquaintances, and her dinners were excellent. If complimented on her
easy circumstances, she made no very strong denial. She had frequently
been heard to say, “I have nothing in the funds, but I have everything I
want. If I wished for more, I could have it.”

Beyond this, the slightest allusion to her past life, her country, or
her family had never escaped her. She was very talkative, but all she
would say would be to the detriment of her neighbours. She was supposed,
however, to have seen the world, and to know a great deal. She was very
distrustful and barricaded herself in her cottage as in a fortress. She
never went out in the evening, and it was well known that she got tipsy
regularly at her dinner and went to bed very soon afterwards. Rarely had
strangers been seen to visit her; four or five times a lady accompanied
by a young man had called, and upon one occasion two gentlemen, one
young, the other old and decorated, had come in a magnificent carriage.

In conclusion, the deceased was held in but little esteem by her
neighbours. Her remarks were often most offensive and odious in the
mouth of a woman of her age. She had been heard to give a young girl
the most detestable counsels. A pork butcher, belonging to Bougival,
embarrassed in his business, and tempted by her supposed wealth, had at
one time paid her his addresses. She, however, repelled his advances,
declaring that to be married once was enough for her. On several
occasions men had been seen in her house; first of all, a young one, who
had the appearance of a clerk of the railway company; then another,
a tall, elderly man, very sunburnt, who was dressed in a blouse, and
looked very villainous. These men were reported to be her lovers.

Whilst questioning the witnesses, the commissary wrote down their
depositions in a more condensed form, and he had got so far, when the
investigating magistrate arrived, attended by the chief of the detective
police, and one of his subordinates.

M. Daburon was a man thirty-eight years of age, and of prepossessing
appearance; sympathetic notwithstanding his coldness; wearing upon his
countenance a sweet, and rather sad expression. This settled melancholy
had remained with him ever since his recovery, two years before, from a
dreadful malady, which had well-nigh proved fatal.

Investigating magistrate since 1859, he had rapidly acquired the most
brilliant reputation. Laborious, patient, and acute, he knew with
singular skill how to disentangle the skein of the most complicated
affair, and from the midst of a thousand threads lay hold to the right
one. None better than he, armed with an implacable logic, could
solve those terrible problems in which X--in algebra, the unknown
quantity--represents the criminal. Clever in deducing the unknown from
the known, he excelled in collecting facts, and in uniting in a
bundle of overwhelming proofs circumstances the most trifling, and in
appearance the most insignificant.

Although possessed of qualifications for his office so numerous and
valuable, he was tremblingly distrustful of his own abilities and
exercised his terrible functions with diffidence and hesitation. He
wanted audacity to risk those sudden surprises so often resorted to by
his colleagues in the pursuit of truth.

Thus it was repugnant to his feelings to deceive even an accused person,
or to lay snares for him; in fact the mere idea of the possibility of a
judicial error terrified him. They said of him in the courts, “He is
a trembler.” What he sought was not conviction, nor the most probable
presumptions, but the most absolute certainty. No rest for him until the
day when the accused was forced to bow before the evidence; so much
so that he had been jestingly reproached with seeking not to discover
criminals but innocents.

The chief of detective police was none other than the celebrated Gevrol.
He is really an able man, but wanting in perseverance, and liable to be
blinded by an incredible obstinacy. If he loses a clue, he cannot bring
himself to acknowledge it, still less to retrace his steps. His audacity
and coolness, however, render it impossible to disconcert him; and
being possessed of immense personal strength, hidden under a most
meagre appearance, he has never hesitated to confront the most daring of
malefactors.

But his specialty, his triumph, his glory, is a memory of faces, so
prodigious as to exceed belief. Let him see a face for five minutes, and
it is enough. Its possessor is catalogued, and will be recognised at any
time. The impossibilities of place, the unlikelihood of circumstances,
the most incredible disguises will not lead him astray. The reason for
this, so he pretends, is because he only looks at a man’s eyes, without
noticing any other features.

This faculty was severely tested some months back at Poissy, by the
following experiment. Three prisoners were draped in coverings so as
to completely disguise their height. Over their faces were thick veils,
allowing nothing of the features to be seen except the eyes, for which
holes had been made; and in this state they were shown to Gevrol.

Without the slightest hesitation he recognised the prisoners and named
them. Had chance alone assisted him?

The subordinate Gevrol had brought with him, was an old offender,
reconciled to the law. A smart fellow in his profession, crafty as
a fox, and jealous of his chief, whose abilities he held in light
estimation. His name was Lecoq.

The commissary, by this time heartily tired of his responsibilities,
welcomed the investigating magistrate and his agents as liberators. He
rapidly related the facts collected and read his official report.

“You have proceeded very well,” observed the investigating magistrate.
“All is stated clearly; yet there is one fact you have omitted to
ascertain.”

“What is that, sir?” inquired the commissary.

“On what day was Widow Lerouge last seen, and at what hour?”

“I was coming to that presently. She was last seen and spoken to on the
evening of Shrove Tuesday, at twenty minutes past five. She was then
returning from Bougival with a basketful of purchases.”

“You are sure of the hour, sir?” inquired Gevrol.

“Perfectly, and for this reason; the two witnesses who furnished me
with this fact, a woman named Tellier and a cooper who lives hard by,
alighted from the omnibus which leaves Marly every hour, when they
perceived the widow in the cross-road, and hastened to overtake her.
They conversed with her and only left her when they reached the door of
her own house.”

“And what had she in her basket?” asked the investigating magistrate.

“The witnesses cannot say. They only know that she carried two sealed
bottles of wine, and another of brandy. She complained to them of
headache, and said, ‘Though it is customary to enjoy oneself on Shrove
Tuesday, I am going to bed.’”

“So, so!” exclaimed the chief of detective police. “I know where to
search!”

“You think so?” inquired M. Daburon.

“Why, it is clear enough. We must find the tall sunburnt man, the
gallant in the blouse. The brandy and the wine were intended for his
entertainment. The widow expected him to supper. He came, sure enough,
the amiable gallant!”

“Oh!” cried the corporal of gendarmes, evidently scandalised, “she was
very old, and terribly ugly!”

Gevrol surveyed the honest fellow with an expression of contemptuous
pity. “Know, corporal,” said he, “that a woman who has money is always
young and pretty, if she desires to be thought so!”

“Perhaps there is something in that,” remarked the magistrate; “but it
is not what strikes me most. I am more impressed by the remark of this
unfortunate woman. ‘If I wished for more, I could have it.’”

“That also attracted my attention,” acquiesced the commissary.

But Gevrol no longer took the trouble to listen. He stuck to his
own opinion, and began to inspect minutely every corner of the room.
Suddenly he turned towards the commissary. “Now that I think of it,”
 cried he, “was it not on Tuesday that the weather changed? It had been
freezing for a fortnight past, and on that evening it rained. At what
time did the rain commence here?”

“At half-past nine,” answered the corporal. “I went out from supper to
make my circuit of the dancing halls, when I was overtaken opposite the
Rue des Pecheurs by a heavy shower. In less than ten minutes there was
half an inch of water in the road.”

“Very well,” said Gevrol. “Then if the man came after half-past nine his
shoes must have been very muddy. If they were dry, he arrived sooner.
This must have been noticed, for the floor is a polished one. Were there
any imprints of footsteps, M. Commissary?”

“I must confess we never thought of looking for them.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the chief detective, in a tone of irritation, “that is
vexatious!”

“Wait,” added the commissary; “there is yet time to see if there are
any, not in this room, but in the other. We have disturbed absolutely
nothing there. My footsteps and the corporal’s will be easily
distinguished. Let us see.”

As the commissary opened the door of the second chamber, Gevrol stopped
him. “I ask permission, sir,” said he to the investigating magistrate,
“to examine the apartment before any one else is permitted to enter. It
is very important for me.”

“Certainly,” approved M. Daburon.

Gevrol passed in first, the others remaining on the threshold. They
all took in at a glance the scene of the crime. Everything, as the
commissary had stated, seemed to have been overturned by some furious
madman. In the middle of the room was a table covered with a fine linen
cloth, white as snow. Upon this was placed a magnificent wineglass of
the rarest manufacture, a very handsome knife, and a plate of the finest
porcelain. There was an opened bottle of wine, hardly touched, and
another of brandy, from which about five or six small glassfuls had been
taken.

On the right, against the wall, stood two handsome walnut-wood
wardrobes, with ornamental locks; they were placed one on each side of
the window; both were empty, and the contents scattered about on all
sides. There were clothing, linen, and other effects unfolded, tossed
about, and crumpled. At the end of the room, near the fireplace, a large
cupboard used for keeping the crockery was wide open. On the other side
of the fireplace, an old secretary with a marble top had been forced,
broken, smashed into bits, and rummaged, no doubt, to its inmost
recesses. The desk, wrenched away, hung by a single hinge. The drawers
had been pulled out and thrown upon the floor.

To the left of the room stood the bed, which had been completely
disarranged and upset. Even the straw of the mattress had been pulled
out and examined.

“Not the slightest imprint,” murmured Gevrol disappointed. “He must have
arrived before half-past nine. You can all come in now.”

He walked right up to the corpse of the widow, near which he knelt.

“It can not be said,” grumbled he, “that the work is not properly done!
the assassin is no apprentice!”

Then looking right and left, he continued: “Oh! oh! the poor devil was
busy with her cooking when he struck her; see her pan of ham and eggs
upon the hearth. The brute hadn’t patience enough to wait for the
dinner. The gentleman was in a hurry, he struck the blow fasting;
therefore he can’t invoke the gayety of dessert in his defense!”

“It is evident,” said the commissary to the investigating magistrate,
“that robbery was the motive of the crime.”

“It is probable,” answered Gevrol in a sly way; “and that accounts for
the absence of the silver spoons from the table.”

“Look here! Some pieces of gold in this drawer!” exclaimed Lecoq, who
had been searching on his own account, “just three hundred and twenty
francs!”

“Well, I never!” cried Gevrol, a little disconcerted. But he soon
recovered from his embarrassment, and added: “He must have forgotten
them; that often happens. I have known an assassin, who, after
accomplishing the murder, became so utterly bewildered as to depart
without remembering to take the plunder, for which he had committed the
crime. Our man became excited perhaps, or was interrupted. Some one may
have knocked at the door. What makes me more willing to think so is,
that the scamp did not leave the candle burning. You see he took the
trouble to put it out.”

“Pooh!” said Lecoq. “That proves nothing. He is probably an economical
and careful man.”

The investigations of the two agents were continued all over the house;
but their most minute researches resulted in discovering absolutely
nothing; not one piece of evidence to convict; not the faintest
indication which might serve as a point of departure. Even the dead
woman’s papers, if she possessed any, had disappeared. Not a letter, not
a scrap of paper even, to be met with. From time to time Gevrol stopped
to swear or grumble. “Oh! it is cleverly done! It is a tiptop piece of
work! The scoundrel is a cool hand!”

“Well, what do you make of it?” at length demanded the investigating
magistrate.

“It is a drawn game monsieur,” replied Gevrol. “We are baffled for the
present. The miscreant has taken his measures with great precaution;
but I will catch him. Before night, I shall have a dozen men in pursuit.
Besides, he is sure to fall into our hands. He has carried off the plate
and the jewels. He is lost!”

“Despite all that,” said M. Daburon, “we are no further advanced than we
were this morning!”

“Well!” growled Gevrol. “A man can only do what he can!”

“Ah!” murmured Lecoq in a low tone, perfectly audible, however, “why is
not old Tirauclair here?”

“What could he do more than we have done?” retorted Gevrol, directing a
furious glance at his subordinate. Lecoq bowed his head and was silent,
inwardly delighted at having wounded his chief.

“Who is old Tirauclair?” asked M. Daburon. “It seems to me that I have
heard the name, but I can’t remember where.”

“He is an extraordinary man!” exclaimed Lecoq. “He was formerly a clerk
at the Mont de Piete,” added Gevrol; “but he is now a rich old fellow,
whose real name is Tabaret. He goes in for playing the detective by way
of amusement.”

“And to augment his revenues,” insinuated the commissary.

“He?” cried Lecoq. “No danger of that. He works so much for the glory
of success that he often spends money from his own pocket. It’s
his amusement, you see! At the Prefecture we have nicknamed him
‘Tirauclair,’ from a phrase he is constantly in the habit of repeating.
Ah! he is sharp, the old weasel! It was he who in the case of that
banker’s wife, you remember, guessed that the lady had robbed herself,
and who proved it.”

“True!” retorted Gevrol; “and it was also he who almost had poor Dereme
guillotined for killing his wife, a thorough bad woman; and all the
while the poor man was innocent.”

“We are wasting our time, gentlemen,” interrupted M. Daburon. Then,
addressing himself to Lecoq, he added:--“Go and find M. Tabaret. I have
heard a great deal of him, and shall be glad to see him at work here.”

Lecoq started off at a run, Gevrol was seriously humiliated. “You have
of course, sir, the right to demand the services of whom you please,”
 commenced he, “but yet--”

“Do not,” interrupted M. Daburon, “let us lose our tempers, M. Gevrol.
I have known you for a long time, and I know your worth; but to-day we
happen to differ in opinion. You hold absolutely to your sunburnt man
in the blouse, and I, on my side, am convinced that you are not on the
right track!”

“I think I am right,” replied the detective, “and I hope to prove it. I
shall find the scoundrel, be he whom he may!”

“I ask nothing better,” said M. Daburon.

“Only, permit me, sir, to give--what shall I say without failing in
respect?--a piece of advice?”

“Speak!”

“I would advise you, sir, to distrust old Tabaret.”

“Really? And for what reason?”

“The old fellow allows himself to be carried away too much by
appearances. He has become an amateur detective for the sake of
popularity, just like an author; and, as he is vainer than a peacock,
he is apt to lose his temper and be very obstinate. As soon as he finds
himself in the presence of a crime, like this one, for example, he
pretends he can explain everything on the instant. And he manages to
invent a story that will correspond exactly with the situation. He
professes, with the help of one single fact, to be able to reconstruct
all the details of an assassination, as a savant pictures an
antediluvian animal from a single bone. Sometimes he divines correctly;
very often, though, he makes a mistake. Take, for instance, the case of
the tailor, the unfortunate Dereme, without me--”

“I thank you for your advice,” interrupted M. Daburon, “and will profit
by it. Now commissary,” he continued, “it is most important to ascertain
from what part of the country Widow Lerouge came.”

The procession of witnesses under the charge of the corporal of
gendarmes were again interrogated by the investigating magistrate.

But nothing new was elicited. It was evident that Widow Lerouge had been
a singularly discreet woman; for, although very talkative, nothing in
any way connected with her antecedents remained in the memory of the
gossips of La Jonchere.

All the people interrogated, however, obstinately tried to impart to
the magistrate their own convictions and personal conjectures. Public
opinion sided with Gevrol. Every voice denounced the tall sunburnt man
with the gray blouse. He must surely be the culprit. Everyone remembered
his ferocious aspect, which had frightened the whole neighbourhood. He
had one evening menaced a woman, and another day beaten a child. They
could point out neither the child nor the woman; but no matter: these
brutal acts were notoriously public. M. Daburon began to despair of
gaining the least enlightenment, when some one brought the wife of a
grocer of Bougival, at whose shop the victim used to deal, and a child
thirteen years old, who knew, it was said, something positive.

The grocer’s wife first made her appearance. She had heard Widow Lerouge
speak of having a son still living.

“Are you quite sure of that?” asked the investigating magistrate.

“As of my existence,” answered the woman, “for, on that evening, yes, it
was evening, she was, saving your presence, a little tipsy. She remained
in my shop more than an hour.”

“And what did she say?”

“I think I see her now,” continued the shopkeeper: “she was leaning
against the counter near the scales, jesting with a fisherman of Marly,
old Husson, who can tell you the same; and she called him a fresh water
sailor. ‘My husband,’ said she, ‘was a real sailor, and the proof is,
he would sometimes remain years on a voyage, and always used to bring me
back cocoanuts. I have a son who is also a sailor, like his dead father,
in the imperial navy.’”

“Did she mention her son’s name?”

“Not that time, but another evening, when she was, if I may say so, very
drunk. She told us that her son’s name was Jacques, and that she had not
seen him for a very long time.”

“Did she speak ill of her husband?”

“Never! She only said he was jealous and brutal, though a good man at
bottom, and that he led her a miserable life. He was weak-headed, and
forged ideas out of nothing at all. In fact he was too honest to be
wise.”

“Did her son ever come to see her while she lived here?”

“She never told me of it.”

“Did she spend much money with you?”

“That depends. About sixty francs a month; sometimes more, for she
always buys the best brandy. She paid cash for all she bought.”

The woman knowing no more was dismissed. The child, who was now brought
forward, belonged to parents in easy circumstances. Tall and strong
for his age, he had bright intelligent eyes, and features expressive of
watchfulness and cunning. The presence of the magistrate did not seem to
intimidate him in the least.

“Let us hear, my boy,” said M. Daburon, “what you know.”

“Well, sir, a few days ago, on Sunday last, I saw a man at Madame
Lerouge’s garden-gate.”

“At what time of the day?”

“Early in the morning. I was going to church, to serve in the second
mass.”

“Well,” continued the magistrate, “and this man was tall and sunburnt,
and dressed in a blouse?”

“No, sir, on the contrary, he was short, very fat, and old.”

“You are sure you are not mistaken?”

“Quite sure,” replied the urchin, “I saw him close face to face, for I
spoke to him.”

“Tell me, then, what occurred?”

“Well, sir, I was passing when I saw this fat man at the gate. He
appeared very much vexed, oh! but awfully vexed! His face was red, or
rather purple, as far as the middle of his head, which I could see very
well, for it was bare, and had very little hair on it.”

“And did he speak to you first?”

“Yes, sir, he saw me, and called out, ‘Halloa! youngster!’ as I came
up to him, and he asked me if I had got a good pair of legs? I answered
yes. Then he took me by the ear, but without hurting me, and said,
‘Since that is so, if you will run an errand for me, I will give you
ten sous. Run as far as the Seine; and when you reach the quay, you will
notice a large boat moored. Go on board, and ask to see Captain Gervais:
he is sure to be there. Tell him that he can prepare to leave, that I am
ready.’ Then he put ten sous in my hand; and off I went.”

“If all the witnesses were like this bright little fellow,” murmured the
commissary, “what a pleasure it would be!”

“Now,” said the magistrate, “tell us how you executed your commission?”

“I went to the boat, sir, found the man, and I told him; and that’s
all.”

Gevrol, who had listened with the most lively attention, leaned over
towards the ear of M. Daburon, and said in a low voice: “Will you permit
me, sir, to ask the brat a few questions?”

“Certainly, M. Gevrol.”

“Come now, my little friend,” said Gevrol, “if you saw this man again,
would you know him?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Then there was something remarkable about him?”

“Yes, I should think so! his face was the colour of a brick!”

“And is that all?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

“But you must remember how he was dressed; had he a blouse on?”

“No; he wore a jacket. Under the arms were very large pockets, and from
out of one of them peeped a blue spotted handkerchief.”

“What kind of trousers had he on?”

“I do not remember.”

“And his waistcoat?”

“Let me see,” answered the child. “I don’t think he wore a waistcoat.
And yet,--but no, I remember he did not wear one; he had a long cravat,
fastened near his neck by a large ring.”

“Ah!” said Gevrol, with an air of satisfaction, “you are a bright boy;
and I wager that if you try hard to remember you will find a few more
details to give us.”

The boy hung down his head, and remained silent. From the knitting of
his young brows, it was plain he was making a violent effort of memory.
“Yes,” cried he suddenly, “I remember another thing.”

“What?”

“The man wore very large rings in his ears.”

“Bravo!” cried Gevrol, “here is a complete description. I shall find the
fellow now. M. Daburon can prepare a warrant for his appearance whenever
he likes.”

“I believe, indeed, the testimony of this child is of the highest
importance,” said M. Daburon; and turning to the boy added, “Can you
tell us, my little friend, with what this boat was loaded?”

“No, sir, I couldn’t see because it was decked.”

“Which way was she going, up the Seine or down?”

“Neither, sir, she was moored.”

“We know that,” said Gevrol. “The magistrate asks you which way the prow
of the boat was turned,--towards Paris or towards Marly?”

“The two ends of the boat seemed alike to me.”

The chief of the detective of police made a gesture of disappointment.

“At least,” said he, addressing the child again, “you noticed the name
of the boat? you can read I suppose. One should always know the names of
the boats one goes aboard of.”

“No, I didn’t see any name,” said the little boy.

“If this boat was moored at the quay,” remarked M. Daburon, “it was
probably noticed by the inhabitants of Bougival.”

“That is true, sir,” approved the commissary.

“Yes,” said Gevrol, “and the sailors must have come ashore. I shall find
out all about it at the wine shop. But what sort of a man was Gervais,
the master, my little friend?”

“Like all the sailors hereabouts, sir.”

The child was preparing to depart when M. Daburon recalled him.

“Before you go, my boy, tell me, have you spoken to any one of this
meeting before to-day?”

“Yes, sir, I told all to mamma when I got back from church, and gave her
the ten sous.”

“And you have told us the whole truth?” continued the magistrate. “You
know that it is a very grave matter to attempt to impose on justice. She
always finds it out, and it is my duty to warn you that she inflicts the
most terrible punishment upon liars.”

The little fellow blushed as red as a cherry, and held down his head.

“I see,” pursued M. Daburon, “that you have concealed something from us.
Don’t you know that the police know everything?”

“Pardon! sir,” cried the boy, bursting into tears,--“pardon. Don’t
punish me, and I will never do so again.”

“Tell us, then, how you have deceived us?”

“Well, sir, it was not ten sous that the man gave me, it was twenty
sous. I only gave half to mamma; and I kept the rest to buy marbles
with.”

“My little friend,” said the investigating magistrate, “for this time I
forgive you. But let it be a lesson for the remainder of your life. You
may go now, and remember it is useless to try and hide the truth; it
always comes to light!”



CHAPTER II.

The two last depositions awakened in M. Daburon’s mind some slight
gleams of hope. In the midst of darkness, the humblest rush-light
acquires brilliancy.

“I will go at once to Bougival, sir, if you approve of this step,”
 suggested Gevrol.

“Perhaps you would do well to wait a little,” answered M. Daburon. “This
man was seen on Sunday morning; we will inquire into Widow Lerouge’s
movements on that day.”

Three neighbours were called. They all declared that the widow had
kept her bed all Sunday. To one woman who, hearing she was unwell,
had visited her, she said, “Ah! I had last night a terrible accident.”
 Nobody at the time attached any significance to these words.

“The man with the rings in his ears becomes more and important,” said
the magistrate, when the woman had retired. “To find him again is
indispensable: you must see to this, M. Gevrol.”

“Before eight days, I shall have him,” replied the chief of detective
police, “if I have to search every boat on the Seine, from its source
to the ocean. I know the name of the captain, Gervais. The navigation
office will tell me something.”

He was interrupted by Lecoq, who rushed into the house breathless. “Here
is old Tabaret,” he said. “I met him just as he was going out. What a
man! He wouldn’t wait for the train, but gave I don’t know how much to a
cabman; and we drove here in fifty minutes!”

Almost immediately, a man appeared at the door, whose aspect it must be
admitted was not at all what one would have expected of a person who had
joined the police for honour alone. He was certainly sixty years old and
did not look a bit younger. Short, thin, and rather bent, he leant
on the carved ivory handle of a stout cane. His round face wore that
expression of perpetual astonishment, mingled with uneasiness, which
has made the fortunes of two comic actors of the Palais-Royal theatre.
Scrupulously shaved, he presented a very short chin, large and good
natured lips, and a nose disagreeably elevated, like the broad end of
one of Sax’s horns. His eyes of a dull gray, were small and red at the
lids, and absolutely void of expression; yet they fatigued the observer
by their insupportable restlessness. A few straight hairs shaded his
forehead, which receded like that of a greyhound, and through their
scantiness barely concealed his long ugly ears. He was very comfortably
dressed, clean as a new franc piece, displaying linen of dazzling
whiteness, and wearing silk gloves and leather gaiters. A long and
massive gold chain, very vulgar-looking, was twisted thrice round his
neck, and fell in cascades into the pocket of his waistcoat.

M. Tabaret, surnamed Tirauclair, stood at the threshold, and bowed
almost to the ground, bending his old back into an arch, and in the
humblest of voices asked, “The investigating magistrate has deigned to
send for me?”

“Yes!” replied M. Daburon, adding under his breath; “and if you are a
man of any ability, there is at least nothing to indicate it in your
appearance.”

“I am here,” continued the old fellow, “completely at the service of
justice.”

“I wish to know,” said M. Daburon, “whether you can discover some clue
that will put us upon the track of the assassin. I will explain the--”

“Oh, I know enough of it!” interrupted old Tabaret. “Lecoq has told me
the principal facts, just as much as I desire to know.”

“Nevertheless--” commenced the commissary of police.

“If you will permit me, I prefer to proceed without receiving any
details, in order to be more fully master of my own impressions. When
one knows another’s opinion it can’t help influencing one’s judgment.
I will, if you please, at once commence my researches, with Lecoq’s
assistance.”

As the old fellow spoke, his little gray eyes dilated, and became
brilliant as carbuncles. His face reflected an internal satisfaction;
even his wrinkles seemed to laugh. His figure became erect, and his step
was almost elastic, as he darted into the inner chamber.

He remained there about half an hour; then came out running, then
re-entered and then again came out; once more he disappeared and
reappeared again almost immediately. The magistrate could not help
comparing him to a pointer on the scent, his turned-up nose even moved
about as if to discover some subtle odour left by the assassin. All
the while he talked loudly and with much gesticulation, apostrophising
himself, scolding himself, uttering little cries of triumph or
self-encouragement. He did not allow Lecoq to have a moment’s rest. He
wanted this or that or the other thing. He demanded paper and a pencil.
Then he wanted a spade; and finally he cried out for plaster of Paris,
some water and a bottle of oil.

When more than an hour had elapsed, the investigating magistrate began
to grow impatient, and asked what had become of the amateur detective.

“He is on the road,” replied the corporal, “lying flat in the mud, and
mixing some plaster in a plate. He says he has nearly finished, and that
he is coming back presently.”

He did in fact return almost instantly, joyous, triumphant, looking at
least twenty years younger. Lecoq followed him, carrying with the utmost
precaution a large basket.

“I have solved the riddle!” said Tabaret to the magistrate. “It is all
clear now, and as plain as noon-day. Lecoq, my lad, put the basket on
the table.”

Gevrol at this moment returned from his expedition equally delighted.

“I am on the track of the man with the earrings,” said he; “the boat
went down the river. I have obtained an exact description of the master
Gervais.”

“What have you discovered, M. Tabaret!” asked the magistrate.

The old fellow carefully emptied upon the table the contents of the
basket,--a big lump of clay, several large sheets of paper, and three
or four small lumps of plaster yet damp. Standing behind this table, he
presented a grotesque resemblance to those mountebank conjurers who in
the public squares juggle the money of the lookers-on. His clothes had
greatly suffered; he was covered with mud up to the chin.

“In the first place,” said he, at last, in a tone of affected modesty,
“robbery has had nothing to do with the crime that occupies our
attention.”

“Oh! of course not!” muttered Gevrol.

“I shall prove it,” continued old Tabaret, “by the evidence. By-and-by
I shall offer my humble opinion as to the real motive. In the second
place, the assassin arrived here before half-past nine; that is to
say, before the rain fell. No more than M. Gevrol have I been able to
discover traces of muddy footsteps; but under the table, on the spot
where his feet rested, I find dust. We are thus assured of the hour.
The widow did not in the least expect her visitor. She had commenced
undressing, and was winding up her cuckoo clock when he knocked.”

“These are absolute details!” cried the commissary.

“But easily established,” replied the amateur. “You see this cuckoo
clock above the secretary; it is one of those which run fourteen or
fifteen hours at most, for I have examined it. Now it is more than
probable, it is certain, that the widow wound it up every evening before
going to bed. How, then, is it that the clock has stopped at five?
Because she must have touched it. As she was drawing the chain, the
assassin knocked. In proof, I show this chair standing under the clock,
and on the seat a very plain foot-mark. Now look at the dress of the
victim; the body of it is off. In order to open the door more quickly,
she did not wait to put it on again, but hastily threw this old shawl
over her shoulders.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the corporal, evidently struck.

“The widow,” continued the old fellow, “knew the person who knocked.
Her haste to open the door gives rise to this conjecture; what follows
proves it. The assassin then gained admission without difficulty. He
is a young man, a little above the middle height, elegantly dressed. He
wore on that evening a high hat. He carried an umbrella, and smoked a
trabucos cigar in a holder.”

“Ridiculous!” cried Gevrol. “This is too much.”

“Too much, perhaps,” retorted old Tabaret. “At all events, it is the
truth. If you are not minute in your investigations, I cannot help it;
anyhow, I am, I search, and I find. Too much, say you? Well deign to
glance at these lumps of damp plaster. They represent the heels of the
boots worn by the assassin, of which I found a most perfect impression
near the ditch, where the key was picked up. On these sheets of paper,
I have marked in outline the imprint of the foot which I cannot take
up, because it is on some sand. Look! heel high, instep pronounced, sole
small and narrow,--an elegant boot, belonging to a foot well cared for
evidently. Look for this impression all along the path; and you will
find it again twice. Then you will find it five times repeated in the
garden where no one else had been; and these footprints prove, by
the way, that the stranger knocked not at the door, but at the
window-shutter, beneath which shone a gleam of light. At the entrance to
the garden, the man leapt to avoid a flower bed! the point of the foot,
more deeply imprinted than usual, shows it. He leapt more than two yards
with ease, proving that he is active, and therefore young.”

Old Tabaret spoke in a low voice, clear and penetrating: and his eye
glanced from one to the other of his auditors, watching the impression
he was making.

“Does the hat astonish you, M. Gevrol?” he pursued. “Just look at the
circle traced in the dust on the marble top of the secretary. Is it
because I have mentioned his height that you are surprised? Take the
trouble to examine the tops of the wardrobes and you will see that the
assassin passed his hands across them. Therefore he is taller than I am.
Do not say that he got on a chair, for in that case, he would have seen
and would not have been obliged to feel. Are you astonished about the
umbrella? This lump of earth shows an admirable impression not only of
the end of the stick, but even of the little round piece of wood which
is always placed at the end of the silk. Perhaps you cannot get over the
statement that he smoked a cigar? Here is the end of a trabucos that
I found amongst the ashes. Has the end been bitten? No. Has it been
moistened with saliva? No. Then he who smoked it used a cigar-holder.”

Lecoq was unable to conceal his enthusiastic admiration, and noiselessly
rubbed his hands together. The commissary appeared stupefied, while
M. Daburon was delighted. Gevrol’s face, on the contrary, was sensibly
elongated. As for the corporal, he was overwhelmed.

“Now,” continued the old fellow, “follow me closely. We have traced the
young man into the house. How he explained his presence at this hour, I
do not know; this much is certain, he told the widow he had not dined.
The worthy woman was delighted to hear it, and at once set to work to
prepare a meal. This meal was not for herself; for in the cupboard I
have found the remains of her own dinner. She had dined off fish; the
autopsy will confirm the truth of this statement. Besides you can see
yourselves, there is but one glass on the table, and one knife. But
who is this young man? Evidently the widow looked upon him as a man of
superior rank to her own; for in the cupboard is a table-cloth still
very clean. Did she use it? No. For her guest she brought out a clean
linen one, her very best. It is for him this magnificent glass, a
present, no doubt, and it is evident she did not often use this knife
with the ivory handle.”

“That is all true,” murmured M. Daburon, “very true.”

“Now, then we have got the young man seated. He began by drinking a
glass of wine, while the widow was putting her pan on the fire. Then,
his heart failing him, he asked for brandy, and swallowed about five
small glassfuls. After an internal struggle of ten minutes (the time it
must have taken to cook the ham and eggs as much as they are), the young
man arose and approached the widow, who was squatting down and leaning
forward over her cooking. He stabbed her twice on the back; but she was
not killed instantly. She half arose seizing the assassin by the hands;
while he drew back, lifting her suddenly, and then hurling her down in
the position in which you see her. This short struggle is indicated by
the posture of the body; for, squatting down and being struck in the
back, it is naturally on her back that she ought to have fallen. The
murderer used a sharp narrow weapon, which was, unless I am deceived,
the end of a foil, sharpened, and with the button broken off. By
wiping the weapon upon his victim’s skirt, the assassin leaves us this
indication. He was not, however, hurt in the struggle. The victim must
have clung with a death-grip to his hands; but, as he had not taken off
his lavender kid gloves,--”

“Gloves! Why this is romance,” exclaimed Gevrol.

“Have you examined the dead woman’s finger-nails, M. Gevrol? No. Well,
do so, and then tell me whether I am mistaken. The woman, now dead,
we come to the object of her assassination. What did this well-dressed
young gentleman want? Money? Valuables? No! no! a hundred times no! What
he wanted, what he sought, and what he found, were papers, documents,
letters, which he knew to be in the possession of the victim. To find
them, he overturned everything, upset the cupboards, unfolded the linen,
broke open the secretary, of which he could not find the key, and even
emptied the mattress of the bed. At last he found these documents. And
then do you know what he did with them? Why, burned them, of course; not
in the fire-place, but in the little stove in the front room. His end
accomplished, what does he do next? He flies, carrying with him all
that he finds valuable, to baffle detection, by suggesting a robbery. He
wrapped everything he found worth taking in the napkin which was to have
served him at dinner, and blowing out the candle, he fled, locking the
door on the outside, and throwing the key into a ditch. And that is
all.”

“M. Tabaret,” said the magistrate, “your investigation is admirable; and
I am persuaded your inferences are correct.”

“Ah!” cried Lecoq, “is he not colossal, my old Tirauclair?”

“Pyramidal!” cried Gevrol ironically. “I fear, however, your
well-dressed young man must have been just a little embarrassed in
carrying a bundle covered with a snow white napkin, which could be so
easily seen from a distance.

“He did not carry it a hundred leagues,” responded old Tabaret. “You may
well believe, that, to reach the railway station, he was not fool enough
to take the omnibus. No, he returned on foot by the shortest way, which
borders the river. Now on reaching the Seine, unless he is more knowing
than I take him to be, his first care was to throw this tell-tale bundle
into the water.”

“Do you believe so, M. Tirauclair?” asked Gevrol.

“I don’t mind making a bet on it; and the best evidence of my belief
is, that I have sent three men, under the surveillance of a gendarme, to
drag the Seine at the nearest spot from here. If they succeed in finding
the bundle, I have promised them a recompense.”

“Out of your own pocket, old enthusiast?”

“Yes, M. Gevrol, out of my own pocket.”

“If they should however find this bundle!” murmured M. Daburon.

He was interrupted by the entrance of a gendarme, who said: “Here is a
soiled table-napkin, filled with plate, money, and jewels, which these
men have found; they claim the hundred francs’ reward, promised them.”

Old Tabaret took from his pocket-book a bank note, which he handed to
the gendarme. “Now,” demanded he, crushing Gevrol with one disdainful
glance, “what thinks the investigating magistrate after this?”

“That, thanks to your remarkable penetration, we shall discover--”

He did not finish. The doctor summoned to make the post-mortem
examination entered the room. That unpleasant task accomplished, it
only confirmed the assertions and conjectures of old Tabaret. The doctor
explained, as the old man had done, the position of the body. In his
opinion also, there had been a struggle. He pointed out a bluish circle,
hardly perceptible, round the neck of the victim, produced apparently
by the powerful grasp of the murderer; finally he declared that Widow
Lerouge had eaten about three hours before being struck.

Nothing now remained except to collect the different objects which would
be useful for the prosecution, and might at a later period confound
the culprit. Old Tabaret examined with extreme care the dead woman’s
finger-nails; and, using infinite precaution, he even extracted from
behind them several small particles of kid. The largest of these pieces
was not above the twenty-fifth part of an inch in length; but all the
same their colour was easily distinguishable. He put aside also the part
of the dress upon which the assassin had wiped his weapon. These with
the bundle recovered from the Seine, and the different casts taken by
the old fellow, were all the traces the murderer had left behind him.

It was not much; but this little was enormous in the eyes of M. Daburon;
and he had strong hopes of discovering the culprit. The greatest
obstacle to success in the unravelling of mysterious crimes is in
mistaking the motive. If the researches take at the first step a false
direction, they are diverted further and further from the truth, in
proportion to the length they are followed. Thanks to old Tabaret, the
magistrate felt confident that he was in the right path.

Night had come on. M. Daburon had now nothing more to do at La Jonchere;
but Gevrol, who still clung to his own opinion of the guilt of the man
with the rings in his ears, declared he would remain at Bougival. He
determined to employ the evening in visiting the different wine shops,
and finding if possible new witnesses. At the moment of departure, after
the commissary and the entire party had wished M. Daburon good-night,
the latter asked M. Tabaret to accompany him.

“I was about to solicit that honour,” replied the old fellow. They set
out together; and naturally the crime which had been discovered, and
with which they were mutually preoccupied, formed the subject of their
conversation.

“Shall we, or shall we not, ascertain the antecedents of this woman!”
 repeated old Tabaret. “All depends upon that now!”

“We shall ascertain them, if the grocer’s wife has told the truth,”
 replied M. Daburon. “If the husband of Widow Lerouge was a sailor, and
if her son Jacques is in the navy, the minister of marine can furnish
information that will soon lead to their discovery. I will write to the
minister this very night.”

They reached the station at Rueil, and took their places in the train.
They were fortunate enough to secure a 1st class carriage to themselves.
But old Tabaret was no longer disposed for conversation. He reflected,
he sought, he combined; and in his face might easily be read the working
of his thoughts. M. Daburon watched him curiously and felt singularly
attracted by this eccentric old man, whose very original taste had led
him to devote his services to the secret police of the Rue de Jerusalem.

“M Tabaret,” he suddenly asked, “have you been long associated with the
police?”

“Nine years, M. Daburon, more than nine years; and permit me to confess
I am a little surprised that you have never before heard of me.”

“I certainly knew you by reputation,” answered M. Daburon; “but your
name did not occur to me, and it was only in consequence of hearing you
praised that I had the excellent idea of asking your assistance.
But what, I should like to know, is your reason for adopting this
employment?”

“Sorrow, sir, loneliness, weariness. Ah! I have not always been happy!”

“I have been told, though, that you are rich.”

The old fellow heaved a deep sigh, which revealed the most cruel
deceptions. “I am well off, sir,” he replied; “but I have not always
been so. Until I was forty-five years old, my life was a series of
absurd and useless privations. I had a father who wasted my youth,
ruined my life, and made me the most pitiable of human creatures.”

There are men who can never divest themselves of their professional
habits. M. Daburon was at all times and seasons more or less an
investigating magistrate.

“How, M. Tabaret,” he inquired, “your father the author of all your
misfortunes?”

“Alas, yes, sir! I have forgiven him at last; but I used to curse him
heartily. In the first transports of my resentment, I heaped upon his
memory all the insults that can be inspired by the most violent hatred,
when I learnt,--But I will confide my history to you, M. Daburon. When
I was five and twenty years of age. I was earning two thousand francs a
year, as a clerk at the Monte de Piete. One morning my father entered
my lodging, and abruptly announced to me that he was ruined, and without
food or shelter. He appeared in despair, and talked of killing himself.
I loved my father. Naturally, I strove to reassure him; I boasted of my
situation, and explained to him at some length, that, while I earned
the means for living, he should want for nothing; and, to commence, I
insisted that henceforth we should live together. No sooner said than
done, and during twenty years I was encumbered with the old--”

“What! you repent of your admirable conduct, M. Tabaret?”

“Do I repent of it! That is to say he deserved to be poisoned by the
bread I gave him.”

M. Daburon was unable to repress a gesture of surprise, which did not
escape the old fellow’s notice.

“Hear, before you condemn me,” he continued. “There was I at
twenty-five, imposing upon myself the severest privations for the sake
of my father,--no more friends, no more flirtations, nothing. In the
evenings, to augment our scanty revenues, I worked at copying law
papers for a notary. I denied myself even the luxury of tobacco.
Notwithstanding this, the old fellow complained without ceasing; he
regretted his lost fortune; he must have pocket-money, with which to
buy this, or that; my utmost exertions failed to satisfy him. Ah, heaven
alone knows what I suffered! I was not born to live alone and grow old,
like a dog. I longed for the pleasures of a home and a family. My dream
was to marry, to adore a good wife, by whom I might be loved a little,
and to see innocent healthy little ones gambolling about my knees. But
pshaw! when such thoughts entered my heart and forced a tear or two from
my eyes, I rebelled against myself. I said: ‘My lad, when you earn but
three thousand francs a year, and have an old and cherished father to
support, it is your duty to stifle such desires, and remain a bachelor.’
And yet I met a young girl. It is thirty years now since that time;
well! just look at me, I am sure I am blushing as red as a tomato.
Her name was Hortense. Who can tell what has become of her? She was
beautiful and poor. Well, I was quite an old man when my father died,
the wretch, the--”

“M. Tabaret!” interrupted the magistrate, “for shame, M. Tabaret!”

“But I have already told you, I have forgiven him, sir. However, you
will soon understand my anger. On the day of his death, looking in his
secretary, I found a memorandum of an income of twenty thousand francs!”

“How so! was he rich?”

“Yes, very rich; for that was not all: he owned near Orleans a property
leased for six thousand francs a year. He owned, besides, the house I
now live in, where we lived together; and I, fool, sot, imbecile,
stupid animal that I was, used to pay the rent every three months to the
concierge!”

“That was too much!” M. Daburon could not help saying.

“Was it not, sir? I was robbing myself of my own money! To crown his
hypocrisy, he left a will wherein he declared, in the name of Holy
Trinity, that he had no other aim in view, in thus acting, than my own
advantage. He wished, so he wrote, to habituate me to habits of good
order and economy, and keep me from the commission of follies. And I was
forty-five years old, and for twenty years I had been reproaching myself
if ever I spent a single sou uselessly. In short, he had speculated on
my good heart, he had ... Bah! on my word, it is enough to disgust the
human race with filial piety!”

M. Tabaret’s anger, albeit very real and justified, was so highly
ludicrous, that M. Daburon had much difficulty to restrain his laughter,
in spite of the real sadness of the recital.

“At least,” said he, “this fortune must have given you pleasure.”

“Not at all, sir, it came too late. Of what avail to have the bread when
one has no longer the teeth? The marriageable age had passed. I resigned
my situation, however, to make way for some one poorer than myself. At
the end of a month I was sick and tired of life; and, to replace the
affections that had been denied me, I resolved to give myself a passion,
a hobby, a mania. I became a collector of books. You think, sir, perhaps
that to take an interest in books a man must have studied, must be
learned?”

“I know, dear M. Tabaret, that he must have money. I am acquainted with
an illustrious bibliomaniac who may be able to read, but who is most
certainly unable to sign his own name.”

“This is very likely. I, too, can read; and I read all the books I
bought. I collected all I could find which related, no matter how
little, to the police. Memoirs, reports, pamphlets, speeches, letters,
novels,--all suited me; and I devoured them. So much so, that little by
little I became attracted towards the mysterious power which, from the
obscurity of the Rue de Jerusalem, watches over and protects society,
which penetrates everywhere, lifts the most impervious veils, sees
through every plot, divines what is kept hidden, knows exactly the
value of a man, the price of a conscience, and which accumulates in its
portfolios the most terrible, as well as the most shameful secrets! In
reading the memoirs of celebrated detectives, more attractive to me
than the fables of our best authors I became inspired by an enthusiastic
admiration for those men, so keen scented, so subtle, flexible as steel,
artful and penetrating, fertile in expedients, who follow crime on
the trail, armed with the law, through the rushwood of legality, as
relentlessly as the savages of Cooper pursue their enemies in the depths
of the American forests. The desire seized me to become a wheel of this
admirable machine,--a small assistance in the punishment of crime
and the triumph of innocence. I made the essay; and I found I did not
succeed too badly.”

“And does this employment please you?”

“I owe to it, sir, my liveliest enjoyments. Adieu weariness! since I
have abandoned the search for books to the search for men. I shrug my
shoulders when I see a foolish fellow pay twenty-five francs for the
right of hunting a hare. What a prize! Give me the hunting of a man!
That, at least, calls the faculties into play, and the victory is not
inglorious! The game in my sport is equal to the hunter; they both
possess intelligence, strength, and cunning. The arms are nearly equal.
Ah! if people but knew the excitement of these games of hide and seek
which are played between the criminal and the detective, everybody
would be wanting employment at the office of the Rue de Jerusalem. The
misfortune is, that the art is becoming lost. Great crimes are now so
rare. The race of strong fearless criminals has given place to the mob
of vulgar pick-pockets. The few rascals who are heard of occasionally
are as cowardly as foolish. They sign their names to their misdeeds, and
even leave their cards lying about. There is no merit in catching them.
Their crime found out, you have only to go and arrest them,--”

“It seems to me, though,” interrupted M. Daburon, smiling, “that our
assassin is not such a bungler.”

“He, sir, is an exception; and I shall have greater delight in tracking
him. I will do everything for that, I will even compromise myself if
necessary. For I ought to confess, M. Daburon,” added he, slightly
embarrassed, “that I do not boast to my friends of my exploits; I even
conceal them as carefully as possible. They would perhaps shake hands
with me less warmly did they know that Tirauclair and Tabaret were one
and the same.”

Insensibly the crime became again the subject of conversation. It was
agreed, that, the first thing in the morning, M. Tabaret should install
himself at Bougival. He boasted that in eight days he should examine
all the people round about. On his side M. Daburon promised to keep him
advised of the least evidence that transpired, and recall him, if by any
chance he should procure the papers of Widow Lerouge.

“To you, M. Tabaret,” said the magistrate in conclusion, “I shall be
always at home. If you have any occasion to speak to me, do not hesitate
to come at night as well as during the day. I rarely go out, and you
will always find me either at my home, Rue Jacob, or in my office at the
Palais de Justice. I will give orders for your admittance whenever you
present yourself.”

The train entered the station at this moment. M. Daburon, having called
a cab, offered a seat to M. Tabaret. The old fellow declined.

“It is not worth while,” he replied, “for I live, as I have had the
honour of telling you, in the Rue St. Lazare, only a few steps from
here.”

“Till to-morrow, then!” said M. Daburon.

“Till to-morrow,” replied old Tabaret; and he added, “We shall succeed.”



CHAPTER III.

M. Tabaret’s house was in fact not more than four minutes’ walk from the
railway terminus of St. Lazare. It was a fine building carefully kept,
and which probably yielded a fine income though the rents were not too
high. The old fellow found plenty of room in it. He occupied on the
first floor, overlooking the street, some handsome apartments, well
arranged and comfortably furnished, the principal of which was his
collection of books. He lived very simply from taste, as well as habit,
waited on by an old servant, to whom on great occasions the concierge
lent a helping hand.

No one in the house had the slightest suspicion of the avocations of the
proprietor. Besides, even the humblest agent of police would be expected
to possess a degree of acuteness for which no one gave M. Tabaret
credit. Indeed, they mistook for incipient idiocy his continual
abstraction of mind.

It is true that all who knew him remarked the singularity of his
habits. His frequent absences from home had given to his proceedings an
appearance at once eccentric and mysterious. Never was young libertine
more irregular in his habits than this old man. He came or failed to
come home to his meals, ate it mattered not what or when. He went out
at every hour of the day and night, often slept abroad, and even
disappeared for entire weeks at a time. Then too he received the
strangest visitors, odd looking men of suspicious appearance, and
fellows of ill-favoured and sinister aspect.

This irregular way of living had robbed the old fellow of much
consideration. Many believed they saw in him a shameless libertine, who
squandered his income in disreputable places. They would remark to one
another, “Is it not disgraceful, a man of his age?”

He was aware of all this tittle-tattle, and laughed at it. This did not,
however, prevent many of his tenants from seeking his society and paying
court to him. They would invite him to dinner, but he almost invariably
refused.

He seldom visited but one person of the house, but with that one he
was very intimate, so much so indeed, that he was more often in her
apartment, than in his own. She was a widow lady, who for fifteen years
had occupied an apartment on the third floor. Her name was Madame Gerdy,
and she lived with her son Noel, whom she adored.

Noel Gerdy was a man thirty-three years of age, but looking older; tall
and well made, with a noble and intelligent face, large black eyes, and
black hair which curled naturally. An advocate, he passed for having
great talent, and greater industry, and had already gained a certain
amount of notoriety. He was an obstinate worker, cold and meditative,
though devoted to his profession, and affected, with some ostentation,
perhaps, a great rigidity of principle, and austerity of manners.

In Madame Gerdy’s apartment, old Tabaret felt himself quite at home. He
considered her as a relation, and looked upon Noel as a son. In spite
of her fifty years, he had often thought of asking the hand of this
charming widow, and was restrained less by the fear of a refusal than
its consequence. To propose and to be rejected would sever the existing
relations, so pleasurable to him. However, he had by his will, which
was deposited with his notary constituted this young advocate his sole
legatee; with the single condition of founding an annual prize of two
thousand francs to be bestowed on the police agent who during the year
had unravelled the most obscure and mysterious crime.

Short as was the distance to his house, old Tabaret was a good quarter
of an hour in reaching it. On leaving M. Daburon his thoughts reverted
to the scene of the murder; and, so blinded was the old fellow to
external objects, that he moved along the street, first jostled on the
right, then on the left, by the busy passers by, advancing one step and
receding two. He repeated to himself for the fiftieth time the words
uttered by Widow Lerouge, as reported by the milk-woman. “If I wished
for any more, I could have it.”

“All is in that,” murmured he. “Widow Lerouge possessed some important
secret, which persons rich and powerful had the strongest motives for
concealing. She had them in her power, and that was her fortune. She
made them sing to her tune; she probably went too far, and so they
suppressed her. But of what nature was this secret, and how did she
become possessed of it? Most likely she was in her youth a servant in
some great family; and whilst there, she saw, heard, or discovered,
something--What? Evidently there is a woman at the bottom of it. Did she
assist her mistress in some love intrigue? What more probable? And in
that case the affair becomes even more complicated. Not only must the
woman be found but her lover also; for it is the lover who has moved in
this affair. He is, or I am greatly deceived, a man of noble birth. A
person of inferior rank would have simply hired an assassin. This man
has not hung back; he himself has struck the blow and by that means
avoiding the indiscretion or the stupidity of an accomplice. He is a
courageous rascal, full of audacity and coolness, for the crime has
been admirably executed. The fellow left nothing behind of a nature to
compromise him seriously. But for me, Gevrol, believing in the robbery,
would have seen nothing. Fortunately, however, I was there. But yet it
can hardly be that,” continued the old man. “It must be something worse
than a mere love affair.”

Old Tabaret entered the porch of the house. The concierge seated by the
window of his lodge saw him as he passed beneath the gas lamp.

“Ah,” said he, “the proprietor has returned at last.”

“So he has,” replied his wife, “but it looks as though his princess
would have nothing to do with him to-night. He seems more loose than
ever.”

“Is it not positively indecent,” said the concierge, “and isn’t he in
a state! His fair ones do treat him well! One of these fine mornings I
shall have to take him to a lunatic asylum in a straight waistcoat.”

“Look at him now!” interrupted his wife, “just look at him now, in the
middle of the courtyard!”

The old fellow had stopped at the extremity of the porch. He had taken
off his hat, and, while talking to himself, gesticulated violently.

“No,” said he, “I have not yet got hold of the clue, I am getting near
it; but have not yet found it out.”

He mounted the staircase, and rang his bell, forgetting that he had his
latch-key in his pocket. His housekeeper opened the door.

“What, is it you, sir,” said she, “and at this hour!”

“What’s that you say?” asked the old fellow.

“I say,” replied the housekeeper, “that it is more than half-past eight
o’clock. I thought you were not coming back this evening. Have you at
least dined?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, fortunately I have kept your dinner warm. You can sit down to it
at once.”

Old Tabaret took his place at the table, and helped himself to soup,
but mounting his hobby-horse again, he forgot to eat, and remained, his
spoon in the air, as though suddenly struck by an idea.

“He is certainly touched in the head,” thought Manette, the housekeeper.
“Look at that stupid expression. Who in his senses would lead the life
he does?” She touched him on the shoulder, and bawled in his ear, as if
he were deaf,--“You do not eat. Are you not hungry?”

“Yes, yes,” muttered he, trying mechanically to escape the voice that
sounded in his ears, “I am very hungry, for since the morning I have
been obliged--” He interrupted himself, remaining with his mouth open,
his eyes fixed on vacancy.

“You were obliged--?” repeated Manette.

“Thunder!” cried he, raising his clenched fists towards the
ceiling,--“heaven’s thunder! I have it!”

His movement was so violent and sudden that the housekeeper was a little
alarmed, and retired to the further end of the dining-room, near the
door.

“Yes,” continued he, “it is certain there is a child!”

Manette approached him quickly. “A child?” she asked in astonishment.

“What next!” cried he in a furious tone. “What are you doing there? Has
your hardihood come to this that you pick up the words which escape me?
Do me the pleasure to retire to your kitchen, and stay there until I
call you.”

“He is going crazy!” thought Manette, as she disappeared very quickly.

Old Tabaret resumed his seat. He hastily swallowed his soup which was
completely cold. “Why,” said he to himself, “did I not think of it
before? Poor humanity! I am growing old, and my brain is worn out. For
it is clear as day; the circumstances all point to that conclusion.”

He rang the bell placed on the table beside him; the servant reappeared.

“Bring the roast,” he said, “and leave me to myself.”

“Yes,” continued he furiously carving a leg of Presale mutton--“Yes,
there is a child, and here is his history! The Widow Lerouge, when a
young woman, is in the service of a great lady, immensely rich. Her
husband, a sailor, probably had departed on a long voyage. The lady had
a lover--found herself enciente. She confided in the Widow Lerouge, and,
with her assistance, accomplished a clandestine accouchement.”

He called again.

“Manette, the dessert, and get out!”

Certainly such a master was unworthy of so excellent a cook as Manette.
He would have been puzzled to say what he had eaten for diner, or even
what he was eating at this moment; it was a preserve of pears.

“But what,” murmured he, “has become of the child? Has it been
destroyed? No; for the Widow Lerouge, an accomplice in an infanticide,
would be no longer formidable. The child has been preserved, and
confided to the care of our widow, by whom it has been reared. They have
been able to take the infant away from her, but not the proofs of its
birth and its existence. Here is the opening. The father is the man of
the fine carriage; the mother is the lady who came with the handsome
young man. Ha! ha! I can well believe the dear old dame wanted for
nothing. She had a secret worth a farm in Brie. But the old lady was
extravagant; her expenses and her demands have increased year by year.
Poor humanity! She has leaned upon the staff too heavily, and broken it.
She has threatened. They have been frightened, and said, ‘Let there be
an end of this!’ But who has charged himself with the commission? The
papa? No; he is too old. By jupiter! The son,--the child himself! He
would save his mother, the brave boy! He has slain the witness and burnt
the proofs!”

Manette all this time, her ear to the keyhole, listened with all her
soul; from time to time she gleaned a word, an oath, the noise of a blow
upon the table; but that was all.

“For certain,” thought she, “his women are running in his head.”

Her curiosity overcame her prudence. Hearing no more, she ventured to
open the door a little way. The old fellow caught her in the very act.

“Monsieur wants his coffee?” stammered she timidly.

“Yes, you may bring it to me,” he answered.

He attempted to swallow his coffee at a gulp, but scalded himself so
severely that the pain brought him suddenly from speculation to reality.

“Thunder!” growled he; “but it is hot! Devil take the case! it has set
me beside myself. They are right when they say I am too enthusiastic.
But who amongst the whole lot of them could have, by the sole exercise
of observation and reason, established the whole history of the
assassination? Certainly not Gevrol, poor man! Won’t he feel vexed and
humiliated, being altogether out of it. Shall I seek M. Daburon? No,
not yet. The night is necessary to me to sift to the bottom all the
particulars, and arrange my ideas systematically. But, on the other
hand, if I sit here all alone, this confounded case will keep me in a
fever of speculation, and as I have just eaten a great deal, I may get
an attack of indigestion. My faith! I will call upon Madame Gerdy: she
has been ailing for some days past. I will have a chat with Noel, and
that will change the course of my ideas.”

He got up from the table, put on his overcoat, and took his hat and
cane.

“Are you going out, sir?” asked Manette.

“Yes.”

“Shall you be late?”

“Possibly.”

“But you will return to-night?”

“I do not know.”

One minute later, M. Tabaret was ringing his friend’s bell.

Madame Gerdy lived in respectable style. She possessed sufficient for
her wants; and her son’s practice, already large, had made them almost
rich. She lived very quietly, and with the exception of one or two
friends, whom Noel occasionally invited to dinner, received very few
visitors. During more than fifteen years that M. Tabaret came familiarly
to the apartments, he had only met the cure of the parish, one of Noel’s
old professors, and Madame Gerdy’s brother, a retired colonel. When
these three visitors happened to call on the same evening, an event
somewhat rare, they played at a round game called Boston; on other
evenings piquet or all-fours was the rule. Noel, however, seldom
remained in the drawing-room, but shut himself up after dinner in
his study, which with his bedroom formed a separate apartment to his
mother’s, and immersed himself in his law papers. He was supposed to
work far into the night. Often in winter his lamp was not extinguished
before dawn.

Mother and son absolutely lived for one another, as all who knew them
took pleasure in repeating. They loved and honoured Noel for the care
he bestowed upon his mother, for his more than filial devotion, for the
sacrifices which all supposed he made in living at his age like an old
man.

The neighbours were in the habit of contrasting the conduct of this
exemplary young man with that of M. Tabaret, the incorrigible old rake,
the hairless dangler.

As for Madame Gerdy, she saw nothing but her son in all the world. Her
love had actually taken the form of worship. In Noel she believed she
saw united all the physical and moral perfections. To her he seemed of a
superior order to the rest of humanity. If he spoke, she was silent and
listened: his word was a command, his advice a decree of Providence. To
care for her son, study his tastes, anticipate his wishes, was the sole
aim of her life. She was a mother.

“Is Madame Gerdy visible?” asked old Tabaret of the girl who opened the
door; and, without waiting for an answer, he walked into the room like
a man assured that his presence cannot be inopportune, and ought to be
agreeable.

A single candle lighted the drawing-room, which was not in its
accustomed order. The small marble-top table, usually in the middle of
the room, had been rolled into a corner. Madame Gerdy’s large arm-chair
was near the window; a newspaper, all crumpled, lay before it on the
carpet.

The amateur detective took in the whole at a glance.

“Has any accident happened?” he asked of the girl.

“Do not speak of it, sir: we have just had a fright! oh, such a fright!”

“What was it? tell me quickly!”

“You know that madame has been ailing for the last month. She has eaten
I may say almost nothing. This morning, even, she said to me--”

“Yes, yes! but this evening?”

“After her dinner, madame went into the drawing-room as usual. She sat
down and took up one of M. Noel’s newspapers. Scarcely had she begun to
read, when she uttered a great cry,--oh, a terrible cry! We hastened to
her; madame had fallen on to the floor, as one dead. M. Noel raised
her in his arms, and carried her into her room. I wanted to fetch the
doctor, sir, but he said there was no need; he knew what was the matter
with her.”

“And how is she now?”

“She has come to her senses; that is to say, I suppose so; for M. Noel
made me leave the room. All that I do know is, that a little while ago
she was talking, and talking very loudly too, for I heard her. Ah, sir,
it is all the same, very strange!”

“What is strange?”

“What I heard Madame Gerdy say to M. Noel.”

“Ah ha! my girl!” sneered old Tabaret; “so you listen at key-holes, do
you?”

“No, sir, I assure you; but madame cried out like one lost. She said,--”

“My girl!” interrupted old Tabaret severely, “one always hears wrong
through key-holes. Ask Manette if that is not so.”

The poor girl, thoroughly confused, sought to excuse herself.

“Enough, enough!” said the old man. “Return to your work: you need not
disturb M. Noel; I can wait for him very well here.”

And satisfied with the reproof he had administered, he picked up the
newspaper, and seated himself beside the fire, placing the candle near
him so as to read with ease. A minute had scarcely elapsed when he in
his turn bounded in his chair, and stifled a cry of instinctive terror
and surprise. These were the first words that met his eye.

“A horrible crime has plunged the village of La Jonchere in
consternation. A poor widow, named Lerouge, who enjoyed the general
esteem and love of the community, has been assassinated in her home. The
officers of the law have made the usual preliminary investigations, and
everything leads us to believe that the police are already on the track
of the author of this dastardly crime.”

“Thunder!” said old Tabaret to himself, “can it be that Madame Gerdy?--”

The idea but flashed across his mind; he fell back into his chair, and,
shrugging his shoulders, murmured,--

“Really this affair of La Jonchere is driving me out of my senses! I
can think of nothing but this Widow Lerouge. I shall be seeing her in
everything now.”

In the mean while, an uncontrollable curiosity made him peruse the
entire newspaper. He found nothing with the exception of these lines, to
justify or explain even the slightest emotion.

“It is an extremely singular coincidence, at the same time,” thought
the incorrigible police agent. Then, remarking that the newspaper was
slightly torn at the lower part, and crushed, as if by a convulsive
grasp, he repeated,--

“It is strange!”

At this moment the door of Madame Gerdy’s room opened, and Noel appeared
on the threshold.

Without doubt the accident to his mother had greatly excited him; for
he was very pale and his countenance, ordinarily so calm, wore an
expression of profound sorrow. He appeared surprised to see old Tabaret.

“Ah, my dear Noel!” cried the old fellow. “Calm my inquietude. How is
your mother?”

“Madame Gerdy is as well as can be expected.”

“Madame Gerdy!” repeated the old fellow with an air of astonishment; but
he continued, “It is plain you have been seriously alarmed.”

“In truth,” replied the advocate, seating himself, “I have experienced a
rude shock.”

Noel was making visibly the greatest efforts to appear calm, to listen
to the old fellow, and to answer him. Old Tabaret, as much disquieted on
his side, perceived nothing.

“At least, my dear boy,” said he, “tell me how this happened?”

The young man hesitated a moment, as if consulting with himself. No
doubt he was unprepared for this point blank question, and knew not what
answer to make; at last he replied,--

“Madame Gerdy has suffered a severe shock in learning from a paragraph
in this newspaper that a woman in whom she takes a strong interest has
been assassinated.”

“Ah!” replied old Tabaret.

The old fellow was in a fever of embarrassment. He wanted to question
Noel, but was restrained by the fear of revealing the secret of his
association with the police. Indeed he had almost betrayed himself by
the eagerness with which he exclaimed,--

“What! your mother knew the Widow Lerouge?”

By an effort he restrained himself, and with difficulty dissembled his
satisfaction; for he was delighted to find himself so unexpectedly on
the trace of the antecedents of the victim of La Jonchere.

“She was,” continued Noel, “the slave of Madame Gerdy, devoted to her in
every way! She would have sacrificed herself for her at a sign from her
hand.”

“Then you, my dear friend, you knew this poor woman!”

“I had not seen her for a very long time,” replied Noel, whose voice
seemed broken by emotion, “but I knew her well. I ought even to say I
loved her tenderly. She was my nurse.”

“She, this woman?” stammered old Tabaret.

This time he was thunderstruck. Widow Lerouge Noel’s nurse? He was most
unfortunate. Providence had evidently chosen him for its instrument, and
was leading him by the hand. He was about to obtain all the information,
which half an hour ago he had almost despaired of procuring. He remained
seated before Noel amazed and speechless. Yet he understood, that,
unless he would compromise himself, he must speak.

“It is a great misfortune,” he murmured at last.

“What it is for Madame Gerdy, I cannot say,” replied Noel with a gloomy
air; “but, for me, it is an overwhelming misfortune! I am struck to
the heart by the blow which has slain this poor woman. Her death, M.
Tabaret, has annihilated all my dreams of the future, and probably
overthrown my most cherished hopes. I had to avenge myself for cruel
injuries; her death breaks the weapon in my hands, and reduces me to
despair, to impotence. Alas! I am indeed unfortunate.”

“You unfortunate?” cried old Tabaret, singularly affected by his dear
Noel’s sadness. “In heaven’s name, what has happened to you?”

“I suffer,” murmured the advocate, “and very cruelly. Not only do I fear
that the injustice is irreparable; but here am I totally without defence
delivered over to the shafts of calumny. I may be accused of inventing
falsehood, of being an ambitious intriguer, having no regard for truth,
no scruples of conscience.”

Old Tabaret was puzzled. What connection could possibly exist between
Noel’s honour and the assassination at La Jonchere? His brain was in
a whirl. A thousand troubled and confused ideas jostled one another in
inextricable confusion.

“Come, come, Noel,” said he, “compose yourself. Who would believe any
calumny uttered about you? Take courage, have you not friends? am I
not here? Have confidence, tell me what troubles you, and it will be
strange, indeed if between us two--”

The advocate started to his feet, impressed by a sudden resolution.

“Well! yes,” interrupted he, “yes, you shall know all. In fact, I am
tired of carrying all alone a secret that is stifling me. The part I
have been playing irritates and wearies me. I have need of a friend to
console me. I require a counsellor whose voice will encourage me, for
one is a bad judge of his own cause, and this crime has plunged me into
an abyss of hesitations.”

“You know,” replied M. Tabaret kindly, “that I regard you as my own son.
Do not scruple to let me serve you.”

“Know then,” commenced the advocate,--“but no, not here: what I have to
say must not be overheard. Let us go into my study.”



CHAPTER IV.

When Noel and old Tabaret were seated face to face in Noel’s study, and
the door had been carefully shut, the old fellow felt uneasy, and said:
“What if your mother should require anything.”

“If Madame Gerdy rings,” replied the young man drily, “the servant will
attend to her.”

This indifference, this cold disdain, amazed old Tabaret, accustomed as
he was to the affectionate relations always existing between mother and
son.

“For heaven’s sake, Noel,” said he, “calm yourself. Do not allow
yourself to be overcome by a feeling of irritation. You have, I see,
some little pique against your mother, which you will have forgotten
to-morrow. Don’t speak of her in this icy tone; but tell me what you
mean by calling her Madame Gerdy?”

“What I mean?” rejoined the advocate in a hollow tone,--“what I mean?”

Then rising from his arm-chair, he took several strides about the room,
and, returning to his place near the old fellow, said,--

“Because, M. Tabaret, Madame Gerdy is not my mother!”

This sentence fell like a heavy blow on the head of the amateur
detective.

“Oh!” he said, in the tone one assumes when rejecting an absurd
proposition, “do you really know what you are saying, Noel? Is it
credible? Is it probable?”

“It is improbable,” replied Noel with a peculiar emphasis which was
habitual to him: “it is incredible, if you will; but yet it is true.
That is to say, for thirty-three years, ever since my birth, this woman
has played a most marvellous and unworthy comedy, to ennoble and enrich
her son,--for she has a son,--at my expense!”

“My friend,” commenced old Tabaret, who in the background of the picture
presented by this singular revelation saw again the phantom of the
murdered Widow Lerouge.

But Noel heard not, and seemed hardly in a state to hear. The young man,
usually so cold, so self-contained, could no longer control his anger.
At the sound of his own voice, he became more and more animated, as a
good horse might at the jingling of his harness.

“Was ever man,” continued he, “more cruelly deceived, more miserably
duped, than I have been! I, who loved this woman, who knew not how to
show my affection for her, who, for her sake, sacrificed my youth! How
she must have laughed at me! Her infamy dates from the moment when for
the first time she took me on her knees; and, until these few days past,
she has sustained without faltering her execrable role. Her love for me
was nothing but hypocrisy! her devotion, falsehood! her caresses,
lies! And I adored her! Ah! why can I not take back all the embraces I
bestowed on her in exchange for her Judas kisses? And for what was all
this heroism of deception, this caution, this duplicity? To betray me
more securely, to despoil me, to rob me, to give to her bastard all
that lawfully appertained to me; my name, a noble name, my fortune, a
princely inheritance!”

“We are getting near it!” thought old Tabaret, who was fast relapsing
into the colleague of M. Gevrol; then aloud he said, “This is very
serious, all that you have been saying, my dear Noel, terribly serious.
We must believe Madame Gerdy possessed of an amount of audacity and
ability rarely to be met with in a woman. She must have been assisted,
advised, compelled perhaps. Who have been her accomplices? She could
never have managed this unaided; perhaps her husband himself.”

“Her husband!” interrupted the advocate, with a laugh. “Ah! you too have
believed her a widow. Pshaw! She never had a husband, the defunct Gerdy
never existed. I was a bastard, dear M. Tabaret, very much a bastard;
Noel, son of the girl Gerdy and an unknown father!”

“Ah!” cried the old fellow; “that then was the reason why your marriage
with Mademoiselle Levernois was broken off four years ago?”

“Yes, my friend, that was the reason. And what misfortunes might have
been averted by this marriage with a young girl whom I loved! However
I did not complain to her whom I then called my mother. She wept, she
accused herself, she seemed ready to die of grief: and I, poor fool! I
consoled her as best I could, I dried her tears, and excused her in her
own eyes. No, there was no husband. Do such women as she have husbands?
She was my father’s mistress; and, on the day when he had had enough of
her, he took up his hat and threw her three hundred thousand francs, the
price of the pleasures she had given him.”

Noel would probably have continued much longer to pour forth his furious
denunciations; but M. Tabaret stopped him. The old fellow felt he was
on the point of learning a history in every way similar to that which he
had imagined; and his impatience to know whether he had guessed aright,
almost caused him to forget to express any sympathy for his friend’s
misfortunes.

“My dear boy,” said he, “do not let us digress. You ask me for advice;
and I am perhaps the best adviser you could have chosen. Come, then,
to the point. How have you learned this? Have you any proofs? where are
they?”

The decided tone in which the old fellow spoke, should no doubt, have
awakened Noel’s attention; but he did not notice it. He had not leisure
to reflect. He therefore answered,--

“I have known the truth for three weeks past. I made the discovery by
chance. I have important moral proofs; but they are mere presumptive
evidence. A word from Widow Lerouge, one single word, would have
rendered them decisive. This word she cannot now pronounce, since they
have killed her; but she had said it to me. Now, Madame Gerdy will deny
all. I know her; with her head on the block, she will deny it. My father
doubtless will turn against me. I am certain, and I possess proofs; now
this crime makes my certitude but a vain boast, and renders my proofs
null and void!”

“Explain it all to me,” said old Tabaret after a pause--“all, you
understand. We old ones are sometimes able to give good advice. We will
decide what’s to be done afterwards.”

“Three weeks ago,” commenced Noel, “searching for some old documents,
I opened Madame Gerdy’s secretary. Accidentally I displaced one of the
small shelves: some papers tumbled out, and a packet of letters fell in
front of my eyes. A mechanical impulse, which I cannot explain, prompted
me to untie the string, and, impelled by an invincible curiosity, I read
the first letter which came to my hand.”

“You did wrong,” remarked M. Tabaret.

“Be it so; anyhow I read. At the end of ten lines, I was convinced that
these letters were from my father, whose name, Madame Gerdy, in spite of
my prayers, had always hidden from me. You can understand my emotion.
I carried off the packet, shut myself up in this room, and devoured the
correspondence from beginning to end.”

“And you have been cruelly punished my poor boy!”

“It is true; but who in my position could have resisted? These letters
have given me great pain; but they afford the proof of what I just now
told you.”

“You have at least preserved these letters?”

“I have them here, M. Tabaret,” replied Noel, “and, that you may
understand the case in which I have requested your advice, I am going to
read them to you.”

The advocate opened one of the drawers of his bureau, pressed an
invisible spring, and from a hidden receptacle constructed in the
thick upper shelf, he drew out a bundle of letters. “You understand, my
friend,” he resumed, “that I will spare you all insignificant details,
which, however, add their own weight to the rest. I am only going to
deal with the more important facts, treating directly of the affair.”

Old Tabaret nestled in his arm-chair, burning with curiosity; his face
and his eyes expressing the most anxious attention. After a selection,
which he was some time in making, the advocate opened a letter, and
commenced reading in a voice which trembled at times, in spite of his
efforts to render it calm.


“‘My dearly loved Valerie,’--


“Valerie,” said he, “is Madame Gerdy.”

“I know, I know. Do not interrupt yourself.”

Noel then resumed.


“‘My dearly loved Valerie,

“‘This is a happy day. This morning I received your darling letter, I
have covered it with kisses, I have re-read it a hundred times; and now
it has gone to join the others here upon my heart. This letter, oh, my
love! has nearly killed me with joy. You were not deceived, then; it was
true! Heaven has blessed our love. We shall have a son.

“‘I shall have a son, the living image of my adored Valerie! Oh! why are
we separated by such an immense distance? Why have I not wings that I
might fly to your feet and fall into your arms, full of the sweetest
voluptuousness! No! never as at this moment have I cursed the fatal
union imposed upon me by an inexorable family, whom my tears could not
move. I cannot help hating this woman, who, in spite of me bears my
name, innocent victim though she is of the barbarity of our parents.
And, to complete my misery, she too will soon render me a father.
Who can describe my sorrow when I compare the fortunes of these two
children?

“‘The one, the son of the object of my tenderest love, will have neither
father nor family, nor even a name, since a law framed to make lovers
unhappy prevents my acknowledging him. While the other, the son of
my detested wife, by the sole fact of his birth, will be rich, noble,
surrounded by devotion and homage, with a great position in the world.
I cannot bear the thought of this terrible injustice! How it is to be
prevented, I do not know: but rest assured I shall find a way. It is to
him who is the most desired, the most cherished, the most beloved, that
the greater fortune should come; and come to him it shall, for I so will
it.’”


“From where is that letter dated?” asked old Tabaret. The style in which
it was written had already settled one point in his mind.

“See,” replied Noel. He handed the letter to the old fellow, who read,--

“Venice, December, 1828.”

“You perceive,” resumed the advocate, “all the importance of this first
letter. It is like a brief statement of the facts. My father, married in
spite of himself, adores his mistress, and detests his wife. Both find
themselves enceinte at the same time, and his feelings towards the two
infants about to be born, are not at all concealed. Towards the end one
almost sees peeping forth the germ of the idea which later on he will
not be afraid to put into execution, in defiance of all law human or
divine!”

He was speaking as though pleading the cause, when old Tabaret
interrupted him.

“It is not necessary to explain it,” said he. “Thank goodness, what you
have just read is explicit enough. I am not an adept in such matters, I
am as simple as a juryman; however I understand it admirably so far.”

“I pass over several letters,” continued Noel, “and I come to this one
dated Jan. 23, 1829. It is very long, and filled with matters altogether
foreign to the subject which now occupies us. However, it contains
two passages, which attest the slow but steady growth of my father’s
project. ‘A destiny, more powerful than my will, chains me to this
country; but my soul is with you, my Valerie! Without ceasing, my
thoughts rest upon the adored pledge of our love which moves within you.
Take care, my darling, take care of yourself, now doubly precious. It
is the lover, the father, who implores you. The last part of your letter
wounds my heart. Is it not an insult to me, for you to express anxiety
as to the future of our child! Oh heaven! she loves me, she knows me,
and yet she doubts!’

“I skip,” said Noel, “two pages of passionate rhapsody, and stop at
these few lines at the end. ‘The countess’s condition causes her to
suffer very much! Unfortunate wife! I hate and at the same time pity
her. She seems to divine the reason of my sadness and my coldness. By
her timid submission and unalterable sweetness, one would think she
sought pardon for our unhappy union. Poor sacrificed creature! She also
may have given her heart to another, before being dragged to the altar.
Our fates would then be the same. Your good heart will pardon my pitying
her.’

“That one was my mother,” cried the advocate in a trembling voice. “A
saint! And he asks pardon for the pity she inspires! Poor woman.”

He passed his hands over his eyes, as if to force back his tears, and
added,--

“She is dead!”

In spite of his impatience, old Tabaret dared not utter a word. Besides
he felt keenly the profound sorrow of his young friend, and respected
it. After a rather long silence, Noel raised his head, and returned to
the correspondence.

“All the letters which follow,” said he, “carry traces of the
preoccupation of my father’s mind on the subject of his bastard son. I
lay them, however, aside. But this is what strikes me in the one written
from Rome, on March 5, 1829. ‘My son, our son, that is my great, my only
anxiety. How to secure for him the future position of which I dream?
The nobles of former times were not worried in this way. In those days
I would have gone to the king, who, with a word, would have assured
the child’s position in the world. To-day, the king who governs with
difficulty his disaffected subjects can do nothing. The nobility has
lost its rights, and the highest in the land are treated the same as
the meanest peasants!’ Lower down I find,--‘My heart loves to picture to
itself the likeness of our son. He will have the spirit, the mind, the
beauty, the grace, all the fascinations of his mother. He will inherit
from his father, pride, valour, and the sentiments of a noble race. And
the other, what will he be like? I tremble to think of it. Hatred can
only engender a monster. Heaven reserves strength and beauty for the
children of love!’ The monster, that is I!” said the advocate, with
intense rage. “Whilst the other--But let us ignore these preliminaries
to an outrageous action. I only desired up to the present to show you
the aberration of my father’s reason under the influence of his passion.
We shall soon come to the point.”

M. Tabaret was astonished at the strength of this passion, of which Noel
was disturbing the ashes. Perhaps, he felt it all the more keenly on
account of those expressions which recalled his own youth. He understood
how irresistible must have been the strength of such a love and he
trembled to speculate as to the result.

“Here is,” resumed Noel, holding up a sheet of paper, “not one of those
interminable epistles from which I have read you short extracts, but a
simple billet. It is dated from Venice at the beginning of May; it is
short but nevertheless decisive; ‘Dear Valerie,--Tell me, as near as
possible, the probable date of your confinement. I await your reply
with an anxiety you would imagine, could you but guess my projects with
regard to our child.’

“I do not know,” said Noel, “whether Madame Gerdy understood; anyhow
she must have answered at once, for this is what my father wrote on the
14th: ‘Your reply, my darling, is what I did not dare expect it to be.
The project I had conceived is now practicable. I begin to feel more
calm and secure. Our son shall bear my name; I shall not be obliged to
separate myself from him. He shall be reared by my side, in my mansion,
under my eyes, on my knees, in my arms. Shall I have strength enough to
bear this excess of happiness? I have a soul for grief, shall I have
one for joy? Oh! my adored one, oh! my precious child, fear nothing, my
heart is vast, enough to love you both! I set out to-morrow for Naples,
from whence I shall write to you at length. Happen what may, however,
though I should have to sacrifice the important interests confided to
me, I shall be in Paris for the critical hour. My presence will double
your courage; the strength of my love will diminish your sufferings.’”

“I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Noel,” said old Tabaret, “do
you know what important affairs detained your father abroad?”

“My father, my old friend,” replied the advocate, “was, in spite of his
youth, one of the friends, one of the confidants, of Charles X.; and he
had been entrusted by him with a secret mission to Italy. My father is
Count Rheteau de Commarin.”

“Whew!” exclaimed the old fellow; and the better to engrave the name
upon his memory, he repeated several times, between his teeth, “Rheteau
de Commarin.”

For a few minutes Noel remained silent. After having appeared to do
everything to control his resentment, he seemed utterly dejected, as
though he had formed the determination to attempt nothing to repair the
injury he had sustained.

“In the middle of the month of May, then,” he continued, “my father is
at Naples. It is whilst there, that he, a man of prudence and sense,
a dignified diplomatist, a nobleman, prompted by an insensate passion,
dares to confide to paper this most monstrous of projects. Listen!

“‘My adored one,--

“‘It is Germain, my old valet, who will hand you this letter. I am
sending him to Normandy, charged with a commission of the most delicate
nature. He is one of those servitors who may be trusted implicitly.

“‘The time has come for me to explain to you my projects respecting my
son. In three weeks, at the latest, I shall be in Paris.

“‘If my previsions are not deceited, the countess and you will be
confined at the same time. An interval of three or four days will not
alter my plan. This is what I have resolved.

“‘My two children will be entrusted to two nurses of Normandy, where my
estates are nearly all situated. One of these women, known to Germain,
and to whom I am sending him, will be in our interests. It is to this
person, Valerie, that our son will be confided. These two women will
leave Paris the same day, Germain accompanying her who will have charge
of the son of the countess.

“‘An accident, devised beforehand, will compel these two women to pass
one night on the road. Germain will arrange so they will have to sleep
in the same inn, and in the same chamber! During the night, our nurse
will change the infants in their cradles.

“‘I have foreseen everything, as I will explain to you, and every
precaution has been taken to prevent our secret from escaping. Germain
has instructions to procure, while in Paris, two sets of baby linen
exactly similar. Assist him with your advice.

“‘Your maternal heart, my sweet Valerie, may perhaps bleed at the
thought of being deprived of the innocent caresses of your child. You
will console yourself by thinking of the position secured to him by your
sacrifice. What excess of tenderness can serve him as powerfully as this
separation? As to the other, I know your fond heart, you will cherish
him. Will it not be another proof of your love for me? Besides, he will
have nothing to complain of. Knowing nothing he will have nothing to
regret; and all that money can secure in this world he shall have.

“‘Do not tell me that this attempt is criminal. No, my well beloved, no.
The success of our plan depends upon so many unlikely circumstances, so
many coincidences, independent of our will, that, without the evident
protection of Providence, we cannot succeed. If, then, success crowns
our efforts, it will be because heaven decreed it.

“‘Meanwhile I hope.’”


“Just what I expected,” murmured old Tabaret.

“And the wretched man,” cried Noel, “dares to invoke the aid of
Providence! He would make heaven his accomplice!”

“But,” asked the old fellow, “how did your mother,--pardon me, I would
say, how did Madame Gerdy receive this proposition?”

“She would appear to have rejected it, at first, for here are twenty
pages of eloquent persuasion from the count, urging her to agree to it,
trying to convince her. Oh, that woman!”

“Come my child,” said M. Tabaret, softly, “try not to be too unjust. You
seem to direct all your resentment against Madame Gerdy? Really, in my
opinion, the count is far more deserving of your anger than she is.”

“True,” interrupted Noel, with a certain degree of violence,--“true,
the count is guilty, very guilty. He is the author of the infamous
conspiracy, and yet I feel no hatred against him. He has committed a
crime, but he has an excuse, his passion. Moreover, my father has not
deceived me, like this miserable woman, every hour of my life, during
thirty years. Besides, M. de Commarin has been so cruelly punished,
that, at this present moment, I can only pardon and pity him.”

“Ah! so he has been punished?” interrogated the old fellow.

“Yes, fearfully, as you will admit. But allow me to continue. Towards
the end of May, or, rather, during the first days of June, the count
must have arrived in Paris, for the correspondence ceases. He saw Madame
Gerdy, and the final arrangements of the conspiracy were decided on.
Here is a note which removes all uncertainty on that point. On the day
it was written, the count was on service at the Tuileries, and unable
to leave his post. He has written it even in the king’s study, on the
king’s paper; see the royal arms! The bargain has been concluded, and
the woman who has consented to become the instrument of my father’s
projects is in Paris. He informs his mistress of the fact.”


“‘Dear Valerie,--Germain informs me of the arrival of your son’s, our
son’s nurse. She will call at your house during the day. She is to be
depended upon; a magnificent recompense ensures her discretion. Do not,
however, mention our plans to her; for she has been given to
understand that you know nothing. I wish to charge myself with the sole
responsibility of the deed; it is more prudent. This woman is a native
of Normandy. She was born on our estate, almost in our house. Her
husband is a brave and honest sailor. Her name is Claudine Lerouge.

“‘Be of good courage, my dear love I am exacting from you the greatest
sacrifice that a lover can hope for from a mother. Heaven, you can no
longer doubt it, protects us. Everything depends now upon our skill and
our prudence, so that we are sure to succeed!’”


On one point, at least, M. Tabaret was sufficiently enlightened. The
researches into the past life of widow Lerouge were no longer difficult.
He could not restrain an exclamation of satisfaction, which passed
unnoticed by Noel.

“This note,” resumed the advocate, “closes the count’s correspondence
with Madame Gerdy.”

“What!” exclaimed the old fellow, “you are in possession of nothing
more?”

“I have also ten lines, written many years later, which certainly have
some weight, but after all are only a moral proof.”

“What a misfortune!” murmured M. Tabaret. Noel laid on the bureau the
letters he had held in his hand, and, turning towards his old friend, he
looked at him steadily.

“Suppose,” said he slowly and emphasising every syllable,--“suppose that
all my information ends here. We will admit, for a moment, that I know
nothing more than you do now. What is your opinion?”

Old Tabaret remained some minutes without answering; he was estimating
the probabilities resulting from M. de Commarin’s letters.

“For my own part,” said he at length, “I believe on my conscience that
you are not Madame Gerdy’s son.”

“And you are right!” answered the advocate forcibly. “You will easily
believe, will you not, that I went and saw Claudine. She loved me, this
poor woman who had given me her milk, she suffered from the knowledge
of the injustice that had been done me. Must I say it, her complicity in
the matter weighed upon her conscience; it was a remorse too great for
her old age. I saw her, I interrogated her, and she told me all. The
count’s scheme, simply and yet ingeniously conceived, succeeded without
any effort. Three days after my birth, the crime was committed, and I,
poor, helpless infant, was betrayed, despoiled and disinherited by my
natural protector, by my own father! Poor Claudine! She promised me her
testimony for the day on which I should reclaim my rights!”

“And she is gone, carrying her secret with her!” murmured the old fellow
in a tone of regret.

“Perhaps!” replied Noel, “for I have yet one hope. Claudine had in her
possession several letters which had been written to her a long time
ago, some by the count, some by Madame Gerdy, letters both imprudent
and explicit. They will be found, no doubt, and their evidence will
be decisive. I have held these letters in my hands, I have read them;
Claudine particularly wished me to keep them, why did I not do so?”

No! there was no hope on that side, and old Tabaret knew so better than
any one. It was these very letters, no doubt, that the assassin of La
Jonchere wanted. He had found them and had burnt them with the other
papers, in the little stove. The old amateur detective was beginning to
understand.

“All the same,” said he, “from what I know of your affairs, which I
think I know as well as my own, it appears to me that the count has not
overwell kept the dazzling promises of fortune he made Madame Gerdy on
your behalf.”

“He never even kept them in the least degree, my old friend.”

“That now,” cried the old fellow indignantly, “is even more infamous
than all the rest.”

“Do not accuse my father,” answered Noel gravely; “his connection with
Madame Gerdy lasted a long time. I remember a haughty-looking man who
used sometimes to come and see me at school, and who could be no other
than the count. But the rupture came.”

“Naturally,” sneered M. Tabaret, “a great nobleman--”

“Wait before judging,” interrupted the advocate. “M. de Commarin had his
reasons. His mistress was false to him, he learnt it, and cast her
off with just indignation. The ten lines which I mentioned to you were
written then.”

Noel searched a considerable time among the papers scattered upon the
table, and at length selected a letter more faded and creased than the
others. Judging from the number of folds in the paper one could guess
that it had been read and re-read many times. The writing even was here
and there partly obliterated.

“In this,” said he in a bitter tone, “Madame Gerdy is no longer the
adored Valerie: ‘A friend, cruel as all true friends, has opened my
eyes. I doubted. You have been watched, and today, unhappily, I can
doubt no more. You, Valerie, you to whom I have given more than my life,
you deceive me and have been deceiving me for a long time past. Unhappy
man that I am! I am no longer certain that I am the father of your
child.’”

“But this note is a proof,” cried old Tabaret, “an overwhelming proof.
Of what importance to the count would be a doubt of his paternity, had
he not sacrificed his legitimate son to his bastard? Yes, you have said
truly, his punishment has been severe.”

“Madame Gerdy,” resumed Noel, “wished to justify herself. She wrote to
the count; but he returned her letters unopened. She called on him,
but he would not receive her. At length she grew tired of her useless
attempts to see him. She knew that all was well over when the count’s
steward brought her for me a legal settlement of fifteen thousand francs
a year. The son had taken my place, and the mother had ruined me!”

Three or four light knocks at the door of the study interrupted Noel.

“Who is there?” he asked, without stirring.

“Sir,” answered the servant from the other side of the door, “madame
wishes to speak to you.”

The advocate appeared to hesitate.

“Go, my son,” advised M. Tabaret; “do not be merciless, only bigots have
that right.”

Noel arose with visible reluctance, and passed into Madame Gerdy’s
sleeping apartment.

“Poor boy!” thought M. Tabaret when left alone. “What a fatal discovery!
and how he must feel it. Such a noble young man! such a brave heart!
In his candid honesty he does not even suspect from whence the blow has
fallen. Fortunately I am shrewd enough for two, and it is just when he
despairs of justice, I am confident of obtaining it for him. Thanks to
his information, I am now on the track. A child might now divine whose
hand struck the blow. But how has it happened? He will tell me without
knowing it. Ah! if I had one of those letters for four and twenty hours.
He has probably counted them. If I ask for one, I must acknowledge my
connection with the police. I had better take one, no matter which, just
to verify the handwriting.”

Old Tabaret had just thrust one of the letters into the depths of his
capacious pocket, when the advocate returned.

He was one of those men of strongly formed character, who never lose
their self-control. He was very cunning and had long accustomed himself
to dissimulation, that indispensable armour of the ambitious.

As he entered the room nothing in his manner betrayed what had taken
place between Madame Gerdy and himself. He was absolutely as calm as,
when seated in his arm-chair, he listened to the interminable stories of
his clients.

“Well,” asked old Tabaret, “how is she now?”

“Worse,” answered Noel. “She is now delirious, and no longer knows
what she says. She has just assailed me with the most atrocious abuse,
upbraiding me as the vilest of mankind! I really believe she is going
out of her mind.”

“One might do so with less cause,” murmured M. Tabaret; “and I think you
ought to send for the doctor.”

“I have just done so.”

The advocate had resumed his seat before his bureau, and was rearranging
the scattered letters according to their dates. He seemed to have
forgotten that he had asked his old friend’s advice; nor did he appear
in any way desirous of renewing the interrupted conversation. This was
not at all what old Tabaret wanted.

“The more I ponder over your history, my dear Noel,” he observed, “the
more I am bewildered. I really do not know what resolution I should
adopt, were I in your situation.”

“Yes, my old friend,” replied the advocate sadly, “it is a situation
that might well perplex even more profound experiences than yours.”

The old amateur detective repressed with difficulty the sly smile, which
for an instant hovered about his lips.

“I confess it humbly,” he said, taking pleasure in assuming an air of
intense simplicity, “but you, what have you done? Your first impulse
must have been to ask Madame Gerdy for an explanation.”

Noel made a startled movement, which passed unnoticed by old Tabaret,
preoccupied as he was in trying to give the turn he desired to the
conversation.

“It was by that,” answered Noel, “that I began.”

“And what did she say?”

“What could she say! Was she not overwhelmed by the discovery?”

“What! did she not attempt to exculpate herself?” inquired the detective
greatly surprised.

“Yes! she attempted the impossible. She pretended she could explain
the correspondence. She told me ... But can I remember what she said?
Lies, absurd, infamous lies.”

The advocate had finished gathering up his letters, without noticing the
abstraction. He tied them together carefully, and replaced them in the
secret drawer of his bureau.

“Yes,” continued he, rising and walking backwards and forward across
his study, as if the constant movement could calm his anger, “yes, she
pretended she could show me I was wrong. It was easy, was it not, with
the proofs I held against her? The fact is she adores her son, and her
heart is breaking at the idea that he may be obliged to restitute what
he has stolen from me. And I, idiot, fool, coward, almost wished not to
mention the matter to her. I said to myself, I will forgive, for after
all she has loved me! Loved? no. She would see me suffer the most
horrible tortures, without shedding a tear, to prevent a single hair
falling from her son’s head.”

“She has probably warned the count,” observed old Tabaret, still
pursuing his idea.

“She may have tried, but cannot have succeeded, for the count has been
absent from Paris for more than a month and is not expected to return
until the end of the week.”

“How do you know that?”

“I wished to see the count my father, to speak with him.”

“You?”

“Yes, I. Do you think that I shall not reclaim my own? Do you imagine
that I shall not raise my voice. On what account should I keep silent,
who have I to consider? I have rights, and I will make them good. What
do you find surprising in that?”

“Nothing, certainly, my friend. So then you called at M. de Commarin’s
house?”

“Oh! I did not decide on doing so all at once,” continued Noel. “At
first my discovery almost drove me mad. Then I required time to reflect.
A thousand opposing sentiments agitated me. At one moment, my fury
blinded me; the next, my courage deserted me. I would, and I would not.
I was undecided, uncertain, wild. The scandal that must arise from the
publicity of such an affair terrified me. I desired, I still desire to
recover my name, that much is certain. But on the eve of recovering it,
I wish to preserve it from stain. I was seeking a means of arranging
everything, without noise, without scandal.”

“At length, however, you made up your mind?”

“Yes, after a struggle of fifteen days, fifteen days of torture, of
anguish! Ah! what I suffered in that time! I neglected my business,
being totally unfit for work. During the day, I tried by incessant
action to fatigue my body, that at night I might find forgetfulness
in sleep. Vain hope! since I found these letters, I have not slept an
hour.”

From time to time, old Tabaret slyly consulted his watch. “M. Daburon
will be in bed,” thought he.

“At last one morning,” continued Noel, “after a night of rage, I
determined to end all uncertainty. I was in that desperate state of
mind, in which the gambler, after successive losses, stakes upon a card
his last remaining coin. I plucked up courage, sent for a cab, and was
driven to the de Commarin mansion.”

The old amateur detective here allowed a sigh of satisfaction to escape
him.

“It is one of the most magnificent houses, in the Faubourg St. Germain,
my friend, a princely dwelling, worthy a great noble twenty times
millionaire; almost a palace in fact. One enters at first a vast
courtyard, to the right and left of which are the stables, containing
twenty most valuable horses, and the coach-houses. At the end rises the
grand facade of the main building, majestic and severe, with its immense
windows, and its double flight of marble steps. Behind the house is
a magnificent garden, I should say a park, shaded by the oldest trees
which perhaps exist in all Paris.”

This enthusiastic description was not at all what M. Tabaret wanted. But
what could he do, how could he press Noel for the result of his visit!
An indiscreet word might awaken the advocate’s suspicions, and reveal to
him that he was speaking not to a friend, but to a detective.

“Were you then shown over the house and grounds?” asked the old fellow.

“No, but I have examined them alone. Since I discovered that I was the
only heir of the Rheteau de Commarin, I have found out the antecedents
of my new family.

“Standing before the dwelling of my ancestors,” continued Noel, “you
cannot comprehend the excess of my emotion. Here, said I, is the house
in which I was born. This is the house in which I should have been
reared; and, above all, this is the spot where I should reign to-day,
whereon I stand an outcast and a stranger, devoured by the sad and
bitter memories, of which banished men have died. I compared my
brother’s brilliant destinies with my sad and labourious career; and my
indignation well nigh overmastered reason. The mad impulse stirred me
to force the doors, to rush into the grand salon, and drive out the
intruder,--the son of Madame Gerdy,--who had taken the place of the
son of the Countess de Commarin! Out, usurper, out of this. I am master
here. The propriety of legal means at once recurred to my distracted
mind, however, and restrained me. Once more I stood before the
habitation of my fathers. How I love its old sculptures, its grand old
trees, its shaded walls, worn by the feet of my poor mother! I love
all, even to the proud escutcheon, frowning above the principal doorway,
flinging its defiance to the theories of this age of levellers.”

This last phrase conflicted so directly with the code of opinions
habitual to Noel, that old Tabaret was obliged to turn aside, to conceal
his amusement.

“Poor humanity!” thought he; “he is already the grand seigneur.”

“On presenting myself,” continued the advocate, “I demanded to see the
Count de Commarin. A Swiss porter, in grand livery, answered, the count
was travelling, but that the viscount was at home. This ran counter to
my designs; but I was embarked; so I insisted on speaking to the son in
default of the father. The Swiss porter stared at me with astonishment.
He had evidently seen me alight from a hired carriage, and so
deliberated for some moments as to whether I was not too insignificant a
person to have the honour of being admitted to visit the viscount.”

“But tell me, have you seen him?” asked old Tabaret, unable to restrain
his impatience.

“Of course, immediately,” replied the advocate in a tone of bitter
raillery. “Could the examination, think you, result otherwise than in
my favour? No. My white cravat and black costume produced their natural
effect. The Swiss porter entrusted me to the guidance of a chasseur with
a plumed hat, who led me across the yard to a superb vestibule, where
five or six footmen were lolling and gaping on their seats. One of these
gentlemen asked me to follow him. He led me up a spacious staircase,
wide enough for a carriage to ascend, preceded me along an extensive
picture gallery, guided me across vast apartments, the furniture of
which was fading under its coverings, and finally delivered me into the
hands of M. Albert’s valet. That is the name by which Madame Gerdy’s son
is known, that is to say, my name.”

“I understand, I understand.”

“I had passed an inspection; now I had to undergo an examination. The
valet desired to be informed who I was, whence I came, what was my
profession, what I wanted and all the rest. I answered simply, that,
quite unknown to the viscount, I desired five minutes’ conversation with
him on a matter of importance. He left me, requesting me to sit down and
wait. I had waited more than a quarter of an hour, when he reappeared.
His master graciously deigned to receive me.”

It was easy to perceive that the advocate’s reception rankled in his
breast, and that he considered it an insult. He could not forgive Albert
his lackeys and his valet. He forgot the words of the illustrious duke,
who said, “I pay my lackeys to be insolent, to save myself the trouble
and ridicule of being so.” Old Tabaret was surprised at his young
friend’s display of bitterness, in speaking of these trivial details.

“What narrow-mindedness,” thought he, “for a man of such intelligence!
Can it be true that the arrogance of lackeys is the secret of the
people’s hatred of an amiable and polite aristocracy?”

“I was ushered into a small apartment,” continued Noel, “simply
furnished, the only ornaments of which were weapons. These, ranged
against the walls, were of all times and countries. Never have I seen
in so small a space so many muskets, pistols, swords, sabres, and foils.
One might have imagined himself in a fencing master’s arsenal.”

The weapon used by Widow Lerouge’s assassin naturally recurred to the
old fellow’s memory.

“The viscount,” said Noel, speaking slowly, “was half lying on a divan
when I entered. He was dressed in a velvet jacket and loose trousers of
the same material, and had around his neck an immense white silk scarf.
I do not cherish any resentment against this young man; he has never to
his knowledge injured me: he was in ignorance of our father’s crime; I
am therefore able to speak of him with justice. He is handsome, bears
himself well, and nobly carries the name which does not belong to him.
He is about my height, of the same dark complexion, and would resemble
me, perhaps, if he did not wear a beard. Only he looks five or six
years younger; but this is readily explained, he has neither worked,
struggled, nor suffered. He is one of the fortunate ones who arrive
without having to start, or who traverse life’s road on such soft
cushions that they are never injured by the jolting of their carriage.
On seeing me, he arose and saluted me graciously.”

“You must have been dreadfully excited,” remarked old Tabaret.

“Less than I am at this moment. Fifteen preparatory days of mental
torture exhausts one’s emotions. I answered the question I saw upon
his lips. ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘you do not know me; but that is of little
consequence. I come to you, charged with a very grave, a very sad
mission, which touches the honour of the name you bear.’ Without doubt
he did not believe me, for, in an impertinent tone, he asked me, ‘Shall
you be long?’ I answered simply, ‘Yes.’”

“Pray,” interrupted old Tabaret, now become very attentive, “do not omit
a single detail; it may be very important, you understand.”

“The viscount,” continued Noel, “appeared very much put out. ‘The fact
is,’ he explained, ‘I had already disposed of my time. This is the hour
at which I call on the young lady to whom I am engaged, Mademoiselle
d’Arlange. Can we not postpone this conversation?’”

“Good! another woman!” said the old fellow to himself.

“I answered the viscount, that an explanation would admit of no delay;
and, as I saw him prepare to dismiss me, I drew from my pocket the
count’s correspondence, and presented one of the letters to him. On
recognizing his father’s handwriting, he became more tractable, declared
himself at my service, and asked permission to write a word of apology
to the lady by whom he was expected. Having hastily written the note
he handed it to his valet, and ordered him to send at once to Madame
d’Arlange. He then asked me to pass into the next room, which was his
library.”

“One word,” interrupted the old fellow; “was he troubled on seeing the
letters?”

“Not the least in the world. After carefully closing the door, he
pointed to a chair, seated himself, and said, ‘Now, sir, explain
yourself.’ I had had time to prepare myself for this interview whilst
waiting in the ante-room. I had decided to go straight to the point.
‘Sir,’ said I, ‘my mission is painful. The facts I am about to reveal to
you are incredible. I beg you, do not answer me until you have read the
letters I have here. I beseech you, above all, to keep calm.’ He looked
at me with an air of extreme surprise, and answered, ‘Speak! I can hear
all.’ I stood up, and said, ‘Sir, I must inform you that you are not the
legitimate son of M. de Commarin, as this correspondence will prove to
you. The legitimate son exists; and he it is who sends me.’ I kept my
eyes on his while speaking, and I saw there a passing gleam of fury.
For a moment I thought he was about to spring at my throat. He soon
recovered himself. ‘The letters,’ said he in a short tone. I handed them
to him.”

“How!” cried old Tabaret, “these letters,--the true ones? How
imprudent!”

“And why?”

“If he had--I don’t know; but--” the old fellow hesitated.

The advocate laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder. “I was there,”
 said he in a hollow tone; “and I promise you the letters were in no
danger.”

Noel’s features assumed such an expression of ferocity that the old
fellow was almost afraid, and recoiled instinctively. “He would have
killed him,” thought he.

“That which I have done for you this evening, my friend,” resumed the
advocate, “I did for the viscount. I obviated, at least for the moment,
the necessity of reading all of these hundred and fifty-six letters.
I told him only to stop at those marked with a cross, and to carefully
read the passages indicated with a red pencil.”

“It was an abridgment of his penance,” remarked old Tabaret.

“He was seated,” continued Noel, “before a little table, too fragile
even to lean upon. I was standing with my back to the fireplace in which
a fire was burning. I followed his slightest movements; and I scanned
his features closely. Never in my life have I seen so sad a spectacle,
nor shall I forget it, if I live for a thousand years. In less than five
minutes his face changed to such an extent that his own valet would not
have recognized him. He held his handkerchief in his hand, with which
from time to time he mechanically wiped his lips. He grew paler and
paler, and his lips became as white as his handkerchief. Large drops of
sweat stood upon his forehead, and his eyes became dull and clouded, as
if a film had covered them; but not an exclamation, not a sigh, not a
groan, not even a gesture, escaped him. At one moment, I felt such pity
for him that I was almost on the point of snatching the letters from his
hands, throwing them into the fire and taking him in my arms, crying,
‘No, you are my brother! Forget all; let us remain as we are and love
one another!’”

M. Tabaret took Noel’s hand, and pressed it. “Ah!” he said, “I recognise
my generous boy.”

“If I have not done this, my friend, it is because I thought to myself,
‘Once these letters destroyed, would he recognise me as his brother?’”

“Ah! very true.”

“In about half an hour, he had finished reading; he arose, and facing me
directly, said, ‘You are right, sir. If these letters are really written
by my father, as I believe them to be, they distinctly prove that I am
not the son of the Countess de Commarin.’ I did not answer. ‘Meanwhile,’
continued he, ‘these are only presumptions. Are you possessed of
other proofs?’ I expected, of course, a great many other objections.
‘Germain,’ said I, ‘can speak.’ He told me that Germain had been dead
for several years. Then I spoke of the nurse, Widow Lerouge--I explained
how easily she could be found and questioned, adding that she lived at
La Jonchere.”

“And what said he, Noel, to this?” asked old Tabaret anxiously.

“He remained silent at first, and appeared to reflect. All on a sudden
he struck his forehead, and said, ‘I remember; I know her. I have
accompanied my father to her house three times, and in my presence he
gave her a considerable sum of money.’ I remarked to him that this was
yet another proof. He made no answer, but walked up and down the room.
At length he turned towards me, saying, ‘Sir, you know M. de Commarin’s
legitimate son?’ I answered: ‘I am he.’ He bowed his head and murmured
‘I thought so.’ He then took my hand and added, ‘Brother, I bear you no
ill will for this.’”

“It seems to me,” remarked old Tabaret, “that he might have left that to
you to say, and with more reason and justice.”

“No, my friend, for he is more ill-used than I. I have not been lowered,
for I did not know, whilst he! ... .”

The old police agent nodded his head, he had to hide his thoughts, and
they were stifling him.

“At length,” resumed Noel, after a rather long pause, “I asked him what
he proposed doing. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I expect my father in about eight
or ten days. You will allow me this delay. As soon as he returns I will
have an explanation with him, and justice shall be done. I give you my
word of honour. Take back your letters and leave me to myself. This news
has utterly overwhelmed me. In a moment I lose everything: a great
name that I have always borne as worthily as possible, a magnificent
position, an immense fortune, and, more than all that, perhaps, the
woman who is dearer to me than life. In exchange, it is true, I shall
find a mother. We will console each other. And I will try, sir, to make
her forget you, for she must love you, and will miss you.’”

“Did he really say that?”

“Almost word for word.”

“Hypocrite!” growled the old fellow between his teeth.

“What did you say?” asked Noel.

“I say that he is a fine young man; and I shall be delighted to make his
acquaintance.”

“I did not show him the letter referring to the rupture,” added
Noel; “it is best that he should ignore Madame Gerdy’s misconduct. I
voluntarily deprived myself of this proof, rather than give him further
pain.”

“And now?”

“What am I to do? I am waiting the count’s return. I shall act more
freely after hearing what he has to say. Tomorrow I shall ask permission
to examine the papers belonging to Claudine. If I find the letters, I am
saved; if not,--but, as I have told you, I have formed no plan since I
heard of the assassination. Now, what do you advise?”

“The briefest counsel demands long reflection,” replied the old fellow,
who was in haste to depart. “Alas! my poor boy, what worry you have
had!”

“Terrible! and, in addition, I have pecuniary embarrassments.”

“How! you who spend nothing?”

“I have entered into various engagements. Can I now make use of Madame
Gerdy’s fortune, which I have hitherto used as my own? I think not.”

“You certainly ought not to. But listen! I am glad you have spoken of
this; you can render me a service.

“Very willingly. What is it?”

“I have, locked up in my secretary, twelve or fifteen thousand francs,
which trouble me exceedingly. You see, I am old, and not very brave, if
any one heard I had this money--”

“I fear I cannot--” commenced the advocate.

“Nonsense!” said the old fellow. “To-morrow I will give them to you
to take care of.” But remembering he was about to put himself at M.
Daburon’s disposal, and that perhaps he might not be free on the morrow,
he quickly added, “No, not to-morrow; but this very evening. This
infernal money shall not remain another night in my keeping.”

He hurried out, and presently reappeared, holding in his hand fifteen
notes of a thousand francs each. “If that is not sufficient,” said he,
handing them to Noel, “you can have more.”

“Anyhow,” replied the advocate, “I will give you a receipt for these.”

“Oh! never mind. Time enough to-morrow.”

“And if I die to-night?”

“Then,” said the old fellow to himself, thinking of his will, “I shall
still be your debtor. Good-night!” added he aloud. “You have asked my
advice, I shall require the night for reflection. At present my brain is
whirling; I must go into the air. If I go to bed now, I am sure to have
a horrible nightmare. Come, my boy; patience and courage. Who knows
whether at this very hour Providence is not working for you?”

He went out, and Noel, leaving his door open, listened to the sound of
his footsteps as he descended the stairs. Almost immediately the cry of,
“Open, if you please,” and the banging of the door apprised him that
M. Tabaret had gone out. He waited a few minutes and refilled his lamp.
Then he took a small packet from one of his bureau drawers, slipped
into his pocket the bank notes lent him by his old friend, and left his
study, the door of which he double-locked. On reaching the landing, he
paused. He listened intently as though the sound of Madame Gerdy’s moans
could reach him where he stood. Hearing nothing, he descended the stairs
on tiptoe. A minute later, he was in the street.



CHAPTER V.

Included in Madame Gerdy’s lease was a coach-house, which was used by
her as a lumber room. Here were heaped together all the old rubbish
of the household, broken pieces of furniture, utensils past service,
articles become useless or cumbrous. It was also used to store the
provision of wood and coal for the winter. This old coach-house had
a small door opening on the street, which had been in disuse for many
years; but which Noel had had secretly repaired and provided with a
lock. He could thus enter or leave the house at any hour without the
concierge or any one else knowing. It was by this door that the advocate
went out, though not without using the utmost caution in opening
and closing it. Once in the street, he stood still a moment, as if
hesitating which way to go. Then, he slowly proceeded in the direction
of the St. Lazare railway station, when a cab happening to pass, he
hailed it. “Rue du Faubourg Montmarte, at the corner of the Rue de
Provence,” said Noel, entering the vehicle, “and drive quick.”

The advocate alighted at the spot named, and dismissed the cabman. When
he had seen him drive off, Noel turned into the Rue de Provence, and,
after walking a few yards, rang the bell of one of the handsomest houses
in the street. The door was immediately opened. As Noel passed
before him the concierge made a most respectful, and at the same time
patronizing bow, one of those salutations which Parisian concierges
reserve for their favorite tenants, generous mortals always ready to
give. On reaching the second floor, the advocate paused, drew a key from
his pocket, and opening the door facing him, entered as if at home. But
at the sound of the key in the lock, though very faint, a lady’s maid,
rather young and pretty, with a bold pair of eyes, ran toward him.

“Ah! it is you, sir,” cried she.

This exclamation escaped her just loud enough to be audible at the
extremity of the apartment, and serve as a signal if needed. It was as
if she had cried, “Take care!”

Noel did not seem to notice it. “Madame is there?” asked he.

“Yes, sir, and very angry too. This morning she wanted to send some one
to you. A little while ago she spoke of going to find you, sir, herself.
I have had much difficulty in prevailing on her not to disobey your
orders.”

“Very well,” said the advocate.

“Madame is in the smoking room,” continued the girl “I am making her a
cup of tea. Will you have one, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Noel. “Show me a light, Charlotte.”

He passed successively through a magnificent dining-room, a splendid
gilded drawing-room in Louis XIV. style, and entered the smoking-room.
This was a rather large apartment with a very high ceiling. Once inside
one might almost fancy oneself three thousand miles from Paris, in
the house of some opulent mandarin of the celestial Empire. Furniture,
carpet, hangings, pictures, all had evidently been imported direct from
Hong Kong or Shanghai. A rich silk tapestry representing brilliantly
coloured figures, covered the walls, and hid the doors from view.
All the empire of the sun and moon was depicted thereon in vermillion
landscapes: corpulent mandarins surrounded by their lantern-bearers;
learned men lay stupefied with opium, sleeping under their parasols;
young girls with elevated eyebrows, stumbled upon their diminutive feet
swathed in bandages. The carpet of a manufacture unknown to Europeans,
was strewn with fruits and flowers, so true to nature that they might
have deceived a bee. Some great artist of Pekin had painted on the silk
which covered the ceiling numerous fantastic birds, opening on azure
ground their wings of purple and gold. Slender rods of lacquer, inlaid
with mother of pearl, bordered the draperies, and marked the angles of
the apartment. Two fantastic looking chests entirely occupied one side
of the room. Articles of furniture of capricious and incoherent forms,
tables with porcelain tops, and chiffoniers of precious woods encumbered
every recess or angle. There were also ornamental cabinets and shelves
purchased of Lien-Tsi, the Tahan of Sou-Tcheou, the artistic city, and
a thousand curiosities, both miscellaneous and costly, from the ivory
sticks which are used instead of forks, to the porcelain teacups,
thinner than soap bubbles,--miracles of the reign of Kien-Loung. A very
large and very low divan piled up with cushions, covered with tapestry
similar to the hangings, occupied one end of the room. There was no
regular window, but instead a large single pane of glass, fixed into the
wall of the house; in front of it was a double glass door with moveable
panes, and the space between was filled with the most rare flowers. The
grate was replaced by registers adroitly concealed, which maintained
in the apartment a temperature fit for hatching silkworms, thus truly
harmonising with the furniture.

When Noel entered, a woman, still young, was reclining on the divan,
smoking a cigarette. In spite of the tropical heat, she was enveloped
in heavy Cashmere shawls. She was small, but then only small women can
unite in their persons every perfection. Women who are above the medium
height must be either essays, or errors of nature. No matter how lovely
they may look, they invariably present some defect, like the work of a
statuary, who, though possessed of genius, attempts for the first time
sculpture on a grand scale. She was small, but her neck, her shoulders,
and her arms had the most exquisite contours. Her hands with their
tapering fingers and rosy nails looked like jewels preciously cared for.
Her feet, encased in silken stockings almost as thin as a spider’s-web,
were a marvel; not that they recalled the very fabulous foot which
Cinderella thrust into the glass slipper; but the other, very real, very
celebrated and very palpable foot, of which the fair owner (the lovely
wife of a well-known banker) used to present the model either in bronze
or in marble to her numerous admirers. Her face was not beautiful, nor
even pretty; but her features were such as one seldom forgets; for, at
the first glance, they startled the beholder like a flash of lightning.
Her forehead was a little high, and her mouth unmistakably large,
notwithstanding the provoking freshness of her lips. Her eyebrows were
so perfect they seem to have been drawn with India ink; but, unhappily
the pencil had been used too heavily; and they gave her an unpleasant
expression when she frowned. On the other hand, her smooth complexion
had a rich golden pallor; and her black and velvety eyes possessed
enormous magnetic power. Her teeth were of a pearly brilliancy and
whiteness, and her hair, of prodigious opulence, was black and fine, and
glossy as a raven’s wing.

On perceiving Noel, as he pushed aside the silken hangings, she half
arose and leaned upon her elbow. “So you have come at last?” she
observed in a tone of vexation; “you are very kind.”

The advocate felt almost suffocated by the oppressive temperature of the
room. “How warm it is!” said he; “it is enough to stifle one!”

“Do you find it so?” replied the young woman. “Well, I am actually
shivering! It is true though, that I am very unwell. Waiting is
unbearable to me, it acts upon my nerves; and I have been waiting for
you ever since yesterday.”

“It was quite impossible for me to come,” explained Noel, “quite
impossible!”

“You knew, however,” continued the lady, “that to-day was my settling
day; and that I had several heavy accounts to settle. The tradesmen all
came, and I had not a half-penny to give them. The coachmaker sent his
bill, but there was no money. Then that old rascal Clergot, to whom I
had given an acceptance for three thousand francs, came and kicked up a
frightful row. How pleasant all this is!”

Noel bowed his head like a schoolboy rebuked for having neglected his
lessons. “It is but one day behind,” he murmured.

“And that is nothing, is it?” retorted the young woman. “A man
who respects himself, my friend, may allow his own signature to be
dishonoured, but never that of his mistress! Do you wish to destroy
my credit altogether? You know very well that the only consideration I
receive is what my money pays for. So as soon as I am unable to pay, it
will be all up with me.”

“My dear Juliette,” began the advocate gently.

“Oh, yes! that’s all very fine,” interrupted she. “Your dear Juliette!
your adored Juliette! so long as you are here it is really charming;
but no sooner are you outside than you forget everything. Do you ever
remember then that there is such a person as Juliette?”

“How unjust you are!” replied Noel. “Do you not know that I am always
thinking of you; have I not proved it to you a thousand times? Look
here! I am going to prove it to you again this very instant.” He
withdrew from his pocket the small packet he had taken out of his bureau
drawer, and, undoing it, showed her a handsome velvet casket. “Here,”
 said he exultingly, “is the bracelet you longed for so much a week ago
at Beaugrau’s.”

Madame Juliette, without rising, held out her hand to take the casket,
and, opening it with the utmost indifference, just glanced at the jewel,
and merely said, “Ah!”

“Is this the one you wanted?” asked Noel.

“Yes, but it looked much prettier in the shop window.” She closed the
casket, and threw it carelessly on to a small table near her.

“I am unfortunate this evening,” said the advocate, much mortified.

“How so?”

“I see plainly the bracelet does not please you.”

“Oh, but it does. I think it lovely ... besides, it will complete the
two dozen.”

It was now Noel’s turn to say: “Ah! ...” and as Juliette said nothing,
he added: “Well, if you are pleased, you do not show it.”

“Oh! so that is what you are driving at!” cried the lady. “I am not
grateful enough to suit you! You bring me a present, and I ought at once
to pay cash, fill the house with cries of joy, and throw myself upon my
knees before you, calling you a great and magnificent lord!”

Noel was unable this time to restrain a gesture of impatience, which
Juliette perceived plainly enough, to her great delight.

“Would that be sufficient?” continued she. “Shall I call Charlotte,
so that she may admire this superb bracelet, this monument of your
generosity? Shall I have the concierge up, and call the cook to tell
them how happy I am to possess such a magnificent lover.”

The advocate shrugged his shoulders like a philosopher, incapable of
noticing a child’s banter. “What is the use of these insulting jests?”
 said he. “If you have any real complaint against me, better to say so
simply and seriously.”

“Very well,” said Juliette, “let us be serious. And, that being so, I
will tell you it would have been better to have forgotten the bracelet,
and to have brought me last night or this morning the eight thousand
francs I wanted.”

“I could not come.”

“You should have sent them; messengers are still to be found at the
street-corners.”

“If I neither brought nor sent them, my dear Juliette, it was because I
did not have them. I had trouble enough in getting them promised me for
to-morrow. If I have the sum this evening, I owe it to a chance upon
which I could not have counted an hour ago; but by which I profited, at
the risk of compromising myself.”

“Poor man!” said Juliette, with an ironical touch of pity in her
voice. “Do you dare to tell me you have had difficulty in obtaining ten
thousand francs,--you?”

“Yes,--I!”

The young woman looked at her lover, and burst into a fit of laughter.
“You are really superb when you act the poor young man!” said she.

“I am not acting.”

“So you say, my own. But I see what you are aiming at. This amiable
confession is the preface. To-morrow you will declare that your affairs
are very much embarrassed, and the day after to-morrow ... Ah! you are
becoming very avaricious. It is a virtue you used not to possess. Do you
not already regret the money you have given me?”

“Wretched woman!” murmured Noel, fast losing patience.

“Really,” continued the lady, “I pity you, oh! so much. Unfortunate
lover! Shall I get up a subscription for you? In your place, I would
appeal to public charity.”

Noel could stand it no longer, in spite of his resolution to remain
calm. “You think it a laughing matter?” cried he. “Well! let me tell
you, Juliette, I am ruined, and I have exhausted my last resources! I am
reduced to expedients!”

The eyes of the young woman brightened. She looked at her lover
tenderly. “Oh, if ‘twas only true, my big pet!” said she. “If I only
could believe you!”

The advocate was wounded to the heart. “She believes me,” thought he;
“and she is glad. She detests me.”

He was mistaken. The idea that a man had loved her sufficiently to ruin
himself for her, without allowing even a reproach to escape him, filled
this woman with joy. She felt herself on the point of loving the man,
now poor and humbled, whom she had despised when rich and proud. But the
expression of her eyes suddenly changed, “What a fool I am,” cried she,
“I was on the point of believing all that, and of trying to console
you. Don’t pretend that you are one of those gentlemen who scatter their
money broadcast. Tell that to somebody else, my friend! All men in our
days calculate like money-lenders. There are only a few fools who ruin
themselves now, some conceited youngsters, and occasionally an amorous
old dotard. Well, you are a very calm, very grave, and very serious
fellow, but above all, a very strong one.”

“Not with you, anyhow,” murmured Noel.

“Come now, stop that nonsense! You know very well what you are about.
Instead of a heart, you have a great big double zero, just like a
Homburg. When you took a fancy to me, you said to yourself, ‘I will
expend so much on passion,’ and you have kept your word. It is an
investment, like any other, in which one receives interest in the form
of pleasure. You are capable of all the extravagance in the world, to
the extent of your fixed price of four thousand francs a month! If it
required a franc more you would very soon take back your heart and
your hat, and carry them elsewhere; to one or other of my rivals in the
neighborhood.”

“It is true,” answered the advocate, coolly. “I know how to count, and
that accomplishment is very useful to me. It enables me to know exactly
how and where I have got rid of my fortune.”

“So you really know?” sneered Juliette.

“And I can tell you, madam,” continued he. “At first you were not very
exacting, but the appetite came with eating. You wished for luxury,
you have it; splendid furniture, you have it; a complete establishment,
extravagant dresses, I could refuse you nothing. You required a
carriage, a horse, I gave them you. And I do not mention a thousand
other whims. I include neither this Chinese cabinet nor the two dozen
bracelets. The total is four hundred thousand francs!”

“Are you sure?”

“As one can be who has had that amount, and has it no longer.”

“Four hundred thousand francs, only fancy! Are there no centimes?”

“No.”

“Then, my dear friend, if I make up my bill, you will still owe me
something.”

The entrance of the maid with the tea-tray interrupted this amorous
duet, of which Noel had experienced more than one repetition. The
advocate held his tongue on account of the servant. Juliette did the
same on account of her lover, for she had no secrets from Charlotte, who
had been with her three years, and with whom she had shared everything,
sometimes even her lovers.

Madame Juliette Chaffour was a Parisienne. She was born about 1839,
somewhere in the upper end of the Faubourg Montmarte. Her father was
unknown. Her infancy was a long alternation of beatings and caresses,
equally furious. She had lived as best she could, on sweetmeats and
damaged fruit; so that now her stomach could stand anything. At twelve
years old she was as thin as a nail, as green as a June apple, and more
depraved than the inmates of the prison of St. Lazare. Prudhomme would
have said that this precocious little hussy was totally destitute of
morality. She had not the slightest idea what morality was. She thought
the world was full of honest people living like her mother, and her
mother’s friends. She feared neither God nor devil, but she was afraid
of the police. She dreaded also certain mysterious and cruel persons,
whom she had heard spoken of, who dwell near the Palais de Justice, and
who experience a malicious pleasure in seeing pretty girls in trouble.
As she gave no promise of beauty, she was on the point of being placed
in a shop, when an old and respectable gentleman, who had known her
mamma some years previously, accorded her his protection. This
old gentleman, prudent and provident like all old gentlemen, was a
connoisseur, and knew that to reap one must sow. He resolved first of
all to give his protege just a varnish of education. He procured masters
for her, who in less than three years taught her to write, to play the
piano, and to dance. What he did not procure her, however, was a lover.
She therefore found one for herself, an artist who taught her nothing
very new, but who carried her off to offer her half of what he
possessed, that is to say nothing. At the end of three months, having
had enough of it, she left the nest of her first love, with all she
possessed tied up in a cotton pocket handkerchief.

During the four years which followed, she led a precarious existence,
sometimes with little else to live upon but hope, which never wholly
abandons a young girl who knows she has pretty eyes. By turns she sunk
to the bottom, or rose to the surface of the stream in which she found
herself. Twice had fortune in new gloves come knocking at her door, but
she had not the sense to keep her. With the assistance of a strolling
player, she had just appeared on the stage of a small theatre, and
spoken her lines rather well, when Noel by chance met her, loved her,
and made her his mistress. Her advocate, as she called him, did not
displease her at first. After a few months, though, she could not bear
him. She detested him for his polite and polished manners, his manly
bearing, his distinguished air, his contempt, which he did not care
to hide, for all that is low and vulgar, and, above all, for his
unalterable patience, which nothing could tire. Her great complaint
against him was that he was not at all funny, and also, that he
absolutely declined to conduct her to those places where one can give
a free vent to one’s spirits. To amuse herself, she began to squander
money; and her aversion for her lover increased at the same rate as her
ambition and his sacrifices. She rendered him the most miserable of men,
and treated him like a dog; and this not from any natural badness of
disposition, but from principle. She was persuaded that a woman is
beloved in proportion to the trouble she causes and the mischief she
does.

Juliette was not wicked, and she believed she had much to complain of.
The dream of her life was to be loved in a way which she felt, but could
scarcely have explained. She had never been to her lovers more than a
plaything. She understood this; and, as she was naturally proud, the
idea enraged her. She dreamed of a man who would be devoted enough to
make a real sacrifice for her, a lover who would descend to her level,
instead of attempting to raise her to his. She despaired of ever meeting
such a one. Noel’s extravagance left her as cold as ice. She believed he
was very rich, and singularly, in spite of her greediness, she did
not care much for money. Noel would have won her easier by a brutal
frankness that would have shown her clearly his situation. He lost her
love by the delicacy of his dissimulation, that left her ignorant of the
sacrifices he was making for her.

Noel adored Juliette. Until the fatal day he saw her, he had lived like
a sage. This, his first passion, burned him up; and, from the disaster,
he saved only appearances.

The four walls remained standing, but the interior of the edifice was
destroyed. Even heroes have their vulnerable parts, Achilles died from
a wound in the heel. The most artfully constructed armour has a flaw
somewhere. Noel was assailable by means of Juliette, and through her
was at the mercy of everything and every one. In four years, this
model young man, this advocate of immaculate reputation, this austere
moralist, had squandered not only his own fortune on her, but Madame
Gerdy’s also. He loved her madly, without reflection, without measure,
with his eyes shut. At her side, he forgot all prudence, and thought out
loud. In her boudoir, he dropped his mask of habitual dissimulation, and
his vices displayed themselves, at ease, as his limbs in a bath. He felt
himself so powerless against her, that he never essayed to struggle. She
possessed him. Once or twice he attempted to firmly oppose her ruinous
caprices; but she had made him pliable as the osier. Under the dark
glances of this girl, his strongest resolutions melted more quickly than
snow beneath an April sun. She tortured him; but she had also the power
to make him forget all by a smile, a tear, or a kiss. Away from the
enchantress, reason returned at intervals, and, in his lucid moments,
he said to himself, “She does not love me. She is amusing herself at
my expense!” But the belief in her love had taken such deep root in his
heart that he could not pluck it forth. He made himself a monster of
jealousy, and then argued with himself respecting her fidelity. On
several occasions he had strong reasons to doubt her constancy, but he
never had the courage to declare his suspicions. “If I am not mistaken,
I shall either have to leave her,” thought he, “or accept everything in
the future.” At the idea of a separation from Juliette, he trembled,
and felt his passion strong enough to compel him to submit to the lowest
indignity. He preferred even these heartbreaking doubts to a still more
dreadful certainty.

The presence of the maid who took a considerable time in arranging the
tea-table gave Noel an opportunity to recover himself. He looked at
Juliette; and his anger took flight. Already he began to ask himself if
he had not been a little cruel to her. When Charlotte retired, he came
and took a seat on the divan beside his mistress, and attempted to put
his arms round her. “Come,” said he in a caressing tone, “you have been
angry enough for this evening. If I have done wrong, you have punished
me sufficiently. Kiss me, and make it up.”

She repulsed him angrily, and said in a dry tone,--“Let me alone! How
many times must I tell you that I am very unwell this evening.”

“You suffer, my love?” resumed the advocate, “where? Shall I send for
the doctor?”

“There is no need. I know the nature of my malady; it is called ennui.
You are not at all the doctor who could do anything for me.”

Noel rose with a discouraged air, and took his place at the side of the
tea-table, facing her. His resignation bespoke how habituated he had
become to these rebuffs. Juliette snubbed him; but he returned always,
like the poor dog who lies in wait all day for the time when his
caresses will not be inopportune. “You have told me very often during
the last few months, that I bother you. What have I done?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Well, then, why--?”

“My life is nothing more than a continual yawn,” answered the young
woman; “is it my fault? Do you think it very amusing to be your
mistress? Look at yourself. Does there exist another being as sad,
as dull as you, more uneasy, more suspicious, devoured by a greater
jealousy!”

“Your reception of me, my dear Juliette,” ventured Noel “is enough to
extinguish gaiety and freeze all effusion. Then one always fears when
one loves!”

“Really! Then one should seek a woman to suit oneself, or have her made
to order; shut her up in the cellar, and have her brought upstairs once
a day, at the end of dinner, during dessert, or with the champagne just
by way of amusement.”

“I should have done better not to have come,” murmured the advocate.

“Of course. I am to remain alone here, without anything to occupy me
except a cigarette and a stupid book, that I go to sleep over? Do you
call this an existence, never to budge out of the house even?”

“It is the life of all the respectable women that I know,” replied the
advocate drily.

“Then I cannot compliment them on their enjoyment. Happily, though, I
am not a respectable woman, and I can tell you I am tired of living
more closely shut up than the wife of a Turk, with your face for sole
amusement.”

“You live shut up, you?”

“Certainly!” continued Juliette, with increased bitterness. “Come, have
you ever brought one of your friends here? No, you hide me. When
have you offered me your arm for a walk? Never, your dignity would be
sullied, if you were seen in my company. I have a carriage. Have you
entered it half a dozen times? Perhaps; but then you let down the
blinds! I go out alone. I walk about alone!”

“Always the same refrain,” interrupted Noel, anger getting the better of
him, “always these uncalled for complaints. As though you had still to
learn the reason why this state of things exists.”

“I know well enough,” pursued the young woman, “that you are ashamed of
me. Yet I know many bigger swells then you, who do not mind being seen
with their mistresses. My lord trembles for his fine name of Gerdy that
I might sully, while the sons of the most noble families are not afraid
of showing themselves in public places in the company of the stupidest
of kept women.”

At last Noel could stand it no longer, to the great delight of Madame
Chaffour.

“Enough of these recriminations!” cried he, rising. “If I hide our
relations, it is because I am constrained to do so. Of what do you
complain? You have unrestrained liberty; and you use it, too, and
so largely that your actions altogether escape me. You accuse me of
creating a vacuum around you. Who is to blame? Did I grow tired of a
happy and quiet existence? My friends would have come to see us in a
home in accordance with a modest competence. Can I bring them here? On
seeing all this luxury, this insolent display of my folly, they would
ask each other where I obtained all the money I have spent on you. I
may have a mistress, but I have not the right to squander a fortune that
does not belong to me. If my acquaintances learnt to-morrow that it is I
who keep you, my future prospects would be destroyed. What client would
confide his interests to the imbecile who ruined himself for the woman
who has been the talk of all Paris? I am not a great lord, I have
neither an historical name to tarnish, nor an immense fortune to lose. I
am plain Noel Gerdy, a advocate. My reputation is all that I possess. It
is a false one, I admit. Such as it is, however, I must keep it, and I
will keep it.”

Juliette who knew her Noel thoroughly, saw that she had gone far
enough. She determined, therefore, to put him in a good humor again. “My
friend,” said she, tenderly, “I did not wish to cause you pain. You must
be indulgent, I am so horribly nervous this evening.”

This sudden change delighted the advocate, and almost sufficed to calm
his anger. “You will drive me mad with your injustice,” said he. “While
I exhaust my imagination to find what can be agreeable to you, you are
perpetually attacking my gravity; yet it is not forty-eight hours since
we were plunged in all the gaiety of the carnival. I kept the fete of
Shrove Tuesday like a student. We went to a theatre; I then put on a
domino, and accompanied you to the ball at the opera, and even invited
two of my friends to sup with us.”

“It was very gay indeed!” answered the young woman, making a wry face.

“So I think.”

“Do you! Then you are not hard to please. We went to the Vaudeville, it
is true, but separately, as we always do, I alone above, you below. At
the ball you looked as though you were burying the devil. At the supper
table your friends were as melancholy as a pair of owls. I obeyed your
orders by affecting hardly to know you. You imbibed like a sponge,
without my being able to tell whether you were drunk or not.”

“That proves,” interrupted Noel, “that we ought not to force our tastes.
Let us talk of something else.”

He took a few steps in the room, then looking at his watch said: “Almost
one o’clock; my love, I must leave you.”

“What! you are not going to remain?”

“No, to my great regret; my mother is dangerously ill.”

He unfolded and counted out on the table the bank notes he had received
from old Tabaret.

“My little Juliette,” said he, “here are not eight thousand francs, but
ten thousand. You will not see me again for a few days.”

“Are you leaving Paris, then?”

“No; but my entire time will be absorbed by an affair of immense
importance to myself. If I succeed in my undertaking, my dear, our
future happiness is assured, and you will then see whether I love you!”

“Oh, my dear Noel, tell me what it is.”

“I cannot now.”

“Tell me I beseech you,” pleaded the young woman, hanging round his
neck, raising herself upon the tips of her toes to press her lips to
his. The advocate embraced her; and his resolution seemed to waver.

“No,” said he at length, “seriously I cannot. Of what use to awaken in
you hopes which can never be realized? Now, my darling, listen to me.
Whatever may happen, understand, you must under no pretext whatever
again come to my house, as you once had the imprudence to do. Do not
even write to me. By disobeying, you may do me an irreparable injury. If
any accident occurs, send that old rascal Clergot to me. I shall have
a visit from him the day after to-morrow, for he holds some bills of
mine.”

Juliette recoiled, menacing Noel with a mutinous gesture. “You will not
tell me anything?” insisted she.

“Not this evening, but very soon,” replied the advocate, embarrassed by
the piercing glance of his mistress.

“Always some mystery!” cried Juliette, piqued at the want of success
attending her blandishments.

“This will be the last, I swear to you!”

“Noel, my good man,” said the young woman in a serious tone, “you are
hiding something from me. I understand you, as you know; for several
days past there has been something or other the matter with you, you
have completely changed.”

“I swear to you, Juliette--”

“No, swear nothing; I should not believe you. Only remember, no attempt
at deceiving me, I forewarn you. I am a woman capable of revenge.”

The advocate was evidently ill at ease. “The affair in question,”
 stammered he, “can as well fail as succeed.”

“Enough,” interrupted Juliette; “your will shall be obeyed. I promise
that. Come, sir, kiss me. I am going to bed.”

The door was hardly shut upon Noel when Charlotte was installed on the
divan near her mistress. Had the advocate been listening at the door,
he might have heard Madame Juliette saying, “No, really, I can no longer
endure him. What a bore he is, my girl. Ah! if I was not so afraid of
him, wouldn’t I leave him at once? But he is capable of killing me!”

The girl vainly tried to defend Noel; but her mistress did not listen.
She murmured, “Why does he absent himself, and what is he plotting? An
absence of eight days is suspicious. Can he by any chance intend to be
married? Ah! if I only knew. You weary me to death, my good Noel, and I
am determined to leave you to yourself one of these fine mornings; but
I cannot permit you to quit me first. Supposing he is going to get
married? But I will not allow it. I must make inquiries.”

Noel, however, was not listening at the door. He went along the Rue de
Provence as quickly as possible, gained the Rue St. Lazare, and entered
the house as he had departed, by the stable door. He had but just sat
down in his study, when the servant knocked.

“Sir,” cried she, “in heaven’s name answer me!”

He opened the door and said impatiently, “What is it?”

“Sir,” stammered the girl in tears, “this is the third time I have
knocked, and you have not answered. Come, I implore you. I am afraid
madame is dying!”

He followed her to Madame Gerdy’s room. He must have found the poor
woman terribly changed, for he could not restrain a movement of terror.
The invalid struggled painfully beneath her coverings. Her face was of
a livid paleness, as though there was not a drop of blood left in her
veins; and her eyes, which glittered with a sombre light, seemed filled
with a fine dust. Her hair, loose and disordered, falling over her
cheeks and upon her shoulders, contributed to her wild appearance.
She uttered from time to time a groan hardly audible, or murmured
unintelligible words. At times, a fiercer pang than the former ones
forced a cry of anguish from her. She did not recognise Noel.

“You see, sir,” said the servant.

“Yes. Who would have supposed her malady could advance so rapidly?
Quick, run to Dr. Herve’s, tell him to get up, and to come at once, tell
him it is for me.” And he seated himself in an arm-chair, facing the
suffering woman.

Dr. Herve was one of Noel’s friends, an old school-fellow, and the
companion of his student days. The doctor’s history differed in
nothing from that of most young men, who, without fortune, friends,
or influence, enter upon the practice of the most difficult, the most
hazardous of professions that exist in Paris, where one sees so many
talented young doctors forced, to earn their bread, to place themselves
at the disposition of infamous drug vendors. A man of remarkable courage
and self-reliance, Herve, his studies over, said to himself, “No, I will
not go and bury myself in the country, I will remain in Paris, I will
there become celebrated. I shall be surgeon-in-chief of an hospital, and
a knight of the Legion of Honour.”

To enter upon this path of thorns, leading to a magnificent triumphal
arch, the future academician ran himself twenty thousand francs in debt
to furnish a small apartment. Here, armed with a patience which
nothing could fatigue, an iron resolution that nothing could subdue, he
struggled and waited. Only those who have experienced it can understand
what sufferings are endured by the poor, proud man, who waits in a black
coat, freshly shaven, with smiling lips, while he is starving of hunger!
The refinements of civilization have inaugurated punishments which put
in the shade the cruelties of the savage. The unknown physician must
begin by attending the poor who cannot pay him. Sometimes too the
patient is ungrateful. He is profuse in promises whilst in danger; but,
when cured, he scorns the doctor, and forgets to pay him his fee.

After seven years of heroic perseverance, Herve has secured at last
a circle of patients who pay him. During this he lived and paid the
exorbitant interest of his debt, but he is getting on. Three or four
pamphlets, and a prize won without much intrigue, have attracted public
attention to him. But he is no longer the brave young enthusiast, full
of the faith and hope that attended him on his first visits. He still
wishes, and more than ever, to acquire distinction, but he no longer
expects any pleasure from his success. He used up that feeling in the
days when he had not wherewith to pay for his dinner. No matter how
great his fortune may be in the days to come, he has already paid too
dearly for it. For him future success is only a kind of revenge.
Less than thirty-five years old, he is already sick of the world, and
believes in nothing. Under the appearance of universal benevolence he
conceals universal scorn. His finesse, sharpened by the grindstone
of adversity, has become mischievous. And, while he sees through all
disguises worn by others, he hides his penetration carefully under a
mask of cheerful good nature and jovialness. But he is kind, he loves
his friends, and is devoted to them.

He arrived, hardly dressed, so great had been his haste. His first words
on entering were, “What is the matter?”

Noel pressed his hand in silence, and by way of answer, pointed to the
bed. In less than a minute, the doctor seized the lamp, examined the
sick woman, and returned to his friend. “What has happened?” he asked
sharply. “It is necessary I should know.”

The advocate started at the question. “Know what?” stammered he.

“Everything!” answered Herve. “She is suffering from inflammation of the
brain. There is no mistaking that. It is by no means a common complaint,
in spite of the constant working of that organ. What can have caused
it? There appears to be no injury to the brain or its bony covering, the
mischief, then, must have been caused by some violent emotion, a great
grief, some unexpected catastrophe ...”

Noel interrupted his friend by a gesture, and drew him into the
embrasure of the window. “Yes, my friend,” said he in a low tone,
“Madame Gerdy has experienced great mental suffering, she has been
frightfully tortured by remorse. Listen, Herve. I will confide our
secret to your honour and your friendship. Madame Gerdy is not my
mother; she despoiled me, to enrich her son with my fortune and my name.
Three weeks ago I discovered this unworthy fraud; she knows it, and
the consequences terrify her. Ever since, she has been dying minute by
minute.”

The advocate expected some exclamations of astonishment, and a host
of questions from his friend; but the doctor received the explanation
without remark, as a simple statement, indispensable to his
understanding the case.

“Three weeks,” he murmured; “then, that explains everything. Has she
appeared to suffer much during the time?”

“She complained of violent headaches, dimness of sight, and intolerable
pains in her ears, she attributed all that though to megrims. Do
not, however, conceal anything from me, Herve; is her complaint very
serious?”

“So serious, my friend, so invariably fatal, that I am almost
undertaking a hopeless task in attempting a cure.”

“Ah! good heaven!”

“You asked for the truth, and I have told it you. If I had that courage,
it was because you told me this poor woman is not your mother. Nothing
short of a miracle can save her; but this miracle we may hope and
prepare for. And now to work!”



CHAPTER VI.

The clock of the St. Lazare terminus was striking eleven as old Tabaret,
after shaking hands with Noel, left his house, still bewildered by what
he had just heard. Obliged to restrain himself at the time, he now fully
appreciated his liberty of action. It was with an unsteady gait that
he took his first steps in the street, like the toper, who, after being
shut up in a warm room, suddenly goes out into the open air. He was
beaming with pleasure, but at the same time felt rather giddy, from that
rapid succession of unexpected revelations, which, so he thought, had
suddenly placed him in possession of the truth.

Notwithstanding his haste to arrive at M. Daburon’s he did not take a
cab. He felt the necessity of walking. He was one of those who require
exercise to see things clearly. When he moved about his ideas fitted and
classified themselves in his brain, like grains of wheat when shaken in
a bushel. Without hastening his pace, he reached the Rue de la Chaussee
d’Antin, crossed the Boulevard with its resplendent cafes, and turned to
the Rue Richelieu.

He walked along, unconscious of external objects, tripping and stumbling
over the inequalities of the sidewalk, or slipping on the greasy
pavement. If he followed the proper road, it was a purely mechanical
impulse that guided him. His mind was wandering at random through the
field of probabilities, and following in the darkness the mysterious
thread, the almost imperceptible end of which he had seized at La
Jonchere.

Like all persons labouring under strong emotion without knowing it, he
talked aloud, little thinking into what indiscreet ears his exclamations
and disjointed phrases might fall. At every step, we meet in Paris
people babbling to themselves, and unconsciously confiding to the four
winds of heaven their dearest secrets, like cracked vases that allow
their contents to steal away. Often the passers-by mistake these
eccentric monologuists for lunatics. Sometimes the curious follow them,
and amuse themselves by receiving these strange confidences. It was
an indiscretion of this kind which told the ruin of Riscara the rich
banker. Lambreth, the assassin of the Rue de Venise, betrayed himself in
a similar manner.

“What luck!” exclaimed old Tabaret. “What an incredible piece of good
fortune! Gevrol may dispute it if he likes, but after all, chance is the
cleverest agent of the police. Who would have imagined such a history? I
was not, however, very far from the reality. I guessed there was a
child in the case. But who would have dreamed of a substitution?--an old
sensational effect, that playwrights no longer dare make use of. This
is a striking example of the danger of following preconceived ideas in
police investigation. We are affrighted at unlikelihood; and, as in this
case, the greatest unlikelihood often proves to be the truth. We
retire before the absurd, and it is the absurd that we should examine.
Everything is possible. I would not take a thousand crowns for what
I have learnt this evening. I shall kill two birds with one stone. I
deliver up the criminal; and I give Noel a hearty lift up to recover his
title and his fortune. There, at least; is one who deserves what he will
get. For once I shall not be sorry to see a lad get on, who has been
brought up in the school of adversity. But, pshaw! he will be like all
the rest. Prosperity will turn his brain. Already he begins to prate of
his ancestors... . Poor humanity he almost made me laugh... . But
it is mother Gerdy who surprises me most. A woman to whom I would have
given absolution without waiting to hear her confess. When I think that
I was on the point of proposing to her, ready to marry her! B-r-r-r!”

At this thought, the old fellow shivered. He saw himself married, and
all on a sudden, discovering the antecedents of Madame Tabaret, becoming
mixed up with a scandalous prosecution, compromised, and rendered
ridiculous.

“When I think,” he continued, “that my worthy Gevrol is running after
the man with the earrings! Run, my boy, run! Travel is a good thing for
youth. Won’t he be vexed? He will wish me dead. But I don’t care. If any
one wishes to do me an injury, M. Daburon will protect me. Ah! there is
one to whom I am going to do a good turn. I can see him now, opening his
eyes like saucers, when I say to him, ‘I have the rascal!’ He can boast
of owing me something. This investigation will bring him honour, or
justice is not justice. He will, at least, be made an officer of the
Legion of Honour. So much the better! I like him. If he is asleep, I am
going to give him an agreeable awaking. Won’t he just overpower me with
questions! He will want to know everything at once.”

Old Tabaret, who was now crossing the Pont des Saints-Peres, stopped
suddenly. “But the details!” said he. “By Jove! I have none. I only know
the bare facts.” He resumed his walk, and continued, “They are right
at the office, I am too enthusiastic; I jump at conclusions, as Gevrol
says. When I was with Noel, I should have cross-examined him, got hold
of a quantity of useful details; but I did not even think of doing so.
I drank in his words. I would have had him tell the story in a sentence.
All the same, it is but natural; when one is pursuing a stag, one does
not stop to shoot a blackbird. But I see very well now, I did not draw
him out enough. On the other hand, by questioning him more, I might have
awakened suspicions in Noel’s mind, and led him to discover that I am
working for the Rue de Jerusalem. To be sure, I do not blush for my
connection with the police, I am even vain of it; but at the same time,
I prefer that no one should know of it. People are so stupid, that
they detest the police, who protect them; I must be calm and on my best
behaviour, for here I am at the end of my journey.”

M. Daburon had just gone to bed, but had given orders to his servant; so
that M. Tabaret had but to give his name, to be at once conducted to the
magistrate’s sleeping apartment. At sight of his amateur detective,
M. Daburon raised himself in his bed, saying, “There is something
extraordinary! What have you discovered? have you got a clue?”

“Better than that,” answered the old fellow, smiling with pleasure.

“Speak quickly!”

“I know the culprit!”

Old Tabaret ought to have been satisfied; he certainly produced an
effect. The magistrate bounded in his bed. “Already!” said he. “Is it
possible?”

“I have the honour to repeat to you, sir,” resumed the old fellow, “that
I know the author of the crime of La Jonchere.”

“And I,” said M. Daburon, “I proclaim you the greatest of all
detectives, past or future. I shall certainly never hereafter undertake
an investigation without your assistance.”

“You are too kind, sir. I have had little or nothing to do in the
matter. The discovery is due to chance alone.”

“You are modest, M. Tabaret. Chance assists only the clever, and it is
that which annoys the stupid. But I beg you will be seated and proceed.”

Then with the lucidness and precision of which few would have believed
him capable, the old fellow repeated to the magistrate all that he had
learned from Noel. He quoted from memory the extracts from the letters,
almost without changing a word.

“These letters,” added he, “I have seen; and I have even taken one, in
order to verify the writing. Here it is.”

“Yes,” murmured the magistrate--“Yes, M. Tabaret, you have discovered
the criminal. The evidence is palpable, even to the blind. Heaven has
willed this. Crime engenders crime. The great sin of the father has made
the son an assassin.”

“I have not given you the names, sir,” resumed old Tabaret. “I wished
first to hear your opinion.”

“Oh! you can name them,” interrupted M. Daburon with a certain degree
of animation, “no matter how high he may have to strike, a French
magistrate has never hesitated.”

“I know it, sir, but we are going very high this time. The father who
has sacrificed his legitimate son for the sake of his bastard is Count
Rheteau de Commarin, and the assassin of Widow Lerouge is the bastard,
Viscount Albert de Commarin!”

M. Tabaret, like an accomplished artist, had uttered these words slowly,
and with a deliberate emphasis, confidently expecting to produce a
great impression. His expectation was more than realized. M. Daburon
was struck with stupor. He remained motionless, his eyes dilated with
astonishment. Mechanically he repeated like a word without meaning which
he was trying to impress upon his memory: “Albert de Commarin! Albert de
Commarin!”

“Yes,” insisted old Tabaret, “the noble viscount. It is incredible, I
know.” But he perceived the alteration in the magistrate’s face, and
a little frightened, he approached the bed. “Are you unwell, sir?” he
asked.

“No,” answered M. Daburon, without exactly knowing what he said. “I am
very well; but the surprise, the emotion,--”

“I understand that,” said the old fellow.

“Yes, it is not surprising, is it? I should like to be alone a few
minutes. Do not leave the house though; we must converse at some length
on this business. Kindly pass into my study, there ought still to be a
fire burning there. I will join you directly.”

Then M. Daburon slowly got out of bed, put on a dressing gown, and
seated himself, or rather fell, into an armchair. His face, to which
in the exercise of his austere functions he had managed to give the
immobility of marble, reflected the most cruel agitation; while his
eyes betrayed the inward agony of his soul. The name of Commarin,
so unexpectedly pronounced, awakened in him the most sorrowful
recollections, and tore open a wound but badly healed. This name
recalled to him an event which had rudely extinguished his youth and
spoilt his life. Involuntarily, he carried his thoughts back to this
epoch, so as to taste again all its bitterness. An hour ago, it had
seemed to him far removed, and already hidden in the mists of the past;
one word had sufficed to recall it, clear and distinct. It seemed to him
now that this event, in which the name of Albert de Commarin was mixed
up, dated from yesterday. In reality nearly two years elapsed since.

Pierre-Marie Daburon belonged to one of the oldest families of Poitou.
Three or four of his ancestors had filled successively the most
important positions in the province. Why, then, had they not bequeathed
a title and a coat of arms to their descendants?

The magistrate’s father possesses, round about the ugly modern chateau
which he inhabits, more than eight hundred thousand francs’ worth of the
most valuable land. By his mother, a Cottevise-Luxe, he is related to
the highest nobility of Poitou, one of the most exclusive that exists in
France, as every one knows.

When he received his nomination in Paris, his relationship caused him to
be received at once by five or six aristocratic families, and it was not
long before he extended his circle of acquaintance.

He possessed, however, none of the qualifications which ensure social
success. He was cold and grave even to sadness, reserved and timid
even to excess. His mind wanted brilliancy and lightness; he lacked
the facility of repartee, and the amiable art of conversing without a
subject; he could neither tell a lie, nor pay an insipid compliment.
Like most men who feel deeply, he was unable to interpret his
impressions immediately. He required to reflect and consider within
himself.

However, he was sought after for more solid qualities than these: for
the nobleness of his sentiments, his pleasant disposition, and the
certainty of his connections. Those who knew him intimately quickly
learned to esteem his sound judgment, his keen sense of honour, and to
discover under his cold exterior a warm heart, an excessive sensibility,
and a delicacy almost feminine. In a word, although he might be eclipsed
in a room full of strangers or simpletons, he charmed all hearts in a
smaller circle, where he felt warmed by an atmosphere of sympathy.

He accustomed himself to go about a great deal. He reasoned, wisely
perhaps, that a magistrate can make better use of his time than by
remaining shut up in his study, in company with books of law. He thought
that a man called upon to judge others, ought to know them, and for that
purpose study them. An attentive and discreet observer, he examined the
play of human interests and passions, exercised himself in disentangling
and manoeuvring at need the strings of the puppets he saw moving around
him. Piece by piece, so to say, he laboured to comprehend the working
of the complicated machine called society, of which he was charged to
overlook the movements, regulate the springs, and keep the wheels in
order.

And on a sudden, in the early part of the winter of 1860 and 1861, M.
Daburon disappeared. His friends sought for him, but he was nowhere to
be met with. What could he be doing? Inquiry resulted in the discovery
that he passed nearly all his evenings at the house of the Marchioness
d’Arlange. The surprise was as great as it was natural.

This dear marchioness was, or rather is,--for she is still in the land
of the living,--a personage whom one would consider rather out of date.
She is surely the most singular legacy bequeathed us by the eighteenth
century. How, and by what marvellous process she had been preserved
such as we see her, it is impossible to say. Listening to her, you would
swear that she was yesterday at one of those parties given by the queen
where cards and high stakes were the rule, much to the annoyance of
Louis XIV., and where the great ladies cheated openly in emulation of
each other.

Manners, language, habits, almost costume, she has preserved everything
belonging to that period about which authors have written only to
display the defects. Her appearance alone will tell more than an
exhaustive article, and an hour’s conversation with her, more than a
volume.

She was born in a little principality, where her parents had taken
refuge whilst awaiting the chastisements and repentance of an erring and
rebellious people. She had been brought up amongst the old nobles of
the emigration, in some very ancient and very gilded apartment, just as
though she had been in a cabinet of curiosities. Her mind had awakened
amid the hum of antediluvian conversations, her imagination had first
been aroused by arguments a little less profitable than those of an
assembly of deaf persons convoked to decide upon the merits of the work
of some distinguished musician. Here she imbibed a fund of ideas, which,
applied to the forms of society of to-day, are as grotesque as would
be those of a child shut up until twenty years of age in an Assyrian
museum.

The first empire, the restoration, the monarchy of July, the second
republic, the second empire, have passed beneath her windows, but she
has not taken the trouble to open them. All that has happened since ‘89
she considers as never having been. For her it is a nightmare from which
she is still awaiting a release. She has looked at everything, but then
she looks through her own pretty glasses which show her everything as
she would wish it, and which are to be obtained of dealers in illusions.

Though over sixty-eight years old she is as straight as a poplar, and
has never been ill. She is vivacious, and active to excess, and can only
keep still when asleep, or when playing her favorite game of piquet. She
has her four meals a day, eats like a vintager, and takes her wine neat.
She professes an undisguised contempt for the silly women of our century
who live for a week on a partridge, and inundate with water grand
sentiments which they entangle in long phrases. She has always been, and
still is, very positive, and her word is prompt and easily understood.
She never shrinks from using the most appropriate word to express her
meaning. So much the worse, if some delicate ears object! She heartily
detests hypocrisy.

She believes in God, but she believes also in M. de Voltaire, so that
her devotion is, to say the least, problematical. However, she is on
good terms with the curate of her parish, and is very particular about
the arrangement of her dinner on the days she honours him with an
invitation to her table. She seems to consider him a subaltern, very
useful to her salvation, and capable of opening the gate of paradise for
her.

Such as she is, she is shunned like the plague. Everybody dreads her
loud voice, her terrible indiscretion, and the frankness of speech which
she affects, in order to have the right of saying the most unpleasant
things which pass through her head. Of all her family, there only
remains her granddaughter, whose father died very young.

Of a fortune originally large, and partly restored by the indemnity
allowed by the government, but since administered in the most careless
manner, she has only been able to preserve an income of twenty thousand
francs, which diminishes day by day. She is, also, proprietor of the
pretty little house which she inhabits, situated near the Invalides,
between a rather narrow court-yard, and a very extensive garden.

So circumstanced, she considers herself the most unfortunate of God’s
creatures, and passes the greater part of her life complaining of her
poverty. From time to time, especially after some exceptionally bad
speculation, she confesses that what she fears most is to die in a
pauper’s bed.

A friend of M. Daburon’s presented him one evening to the Marchioness
d’Arlange, having dragged him to her house in a mirthful mood, saying,
“Come with me, and I will show you a phenomenon, a ghost of the past in
flesh and bone.”

The marchioness rather puzzled the magistrate the first time he was
admitted to her presence. On his second visit, she amused him very much;
for which reason, he came again. But after a while she no longer amused
him, though he still continued a faithful and constant visitor to the
rose-coloured boudoir wherein she passed the greater part of her life.

Madame d’Arlange conceived a violent friendship for him, and became
eloquent in his praises.

“A most charming young man,” she declared, “delicate and sensible! What
a pity he is not born!” (Her ladyship meant born of noble parentage,
but used the phrase as ignoring the fact of the unfortunates who are
not noble having been born at all) “One can receive him though, all
the same; his forefathers were very decent people, and his mother was a
Cottevise who, however, went wrong. I wish him well, and will do all I
can to push him forward.”

The strongest proof of friendship he received from her was, that she
condescended to pronounce his name like the rest of the world. She had
preserved that ridiculous affectation of forgetfulness of the names of
people who were not of noble birth, and who in her opinion had no right
to names. She was so confirmed in this habit, that, if by accident she
pronounced such a name correctly, she immediately repeated it with some
ludicrous alteration. During his first visit, M. Daburon was extremely
amused at hearing his name altered every time she addressed him.
Successively she made it Taburon, Dabiron, Maliron, Laliron, Laridon;
but, in three months time, she called him Daburon as distinctly as if he
had been a duke of something, and a lord of somewhere.

Occasionally she exerted herself to prove to the worthy magistrate that
he was a nobleman, or at least ought to be. She would have been happy,
if she could have persuaded him to adopt some title, and have a helmet
engraved upon his visiting cards.

“How is it possible,” said she, “that your ancestors, eminent, wealthy,
and influential, never thought of being raised from the common herd
and securing a title for their descendants? Today you would possess a
presentable pedigree.--”

“My ancestors were wise,” responded M. Daburon. “They preferred being
foremost among their fellow-citizens to becoming last among the nobles.”

Upon which the marchioness explained, and proved to demonstration, that
between the most influential and wealthy citizen and the smallest scion
of nobility, there was an abyss that all the money in the world could
not fill up.

They who were so surprised at the frequency of the magistrate’s
visits to this celebrated “relic of the past” did not know that lady’s
granddaughter, or, at least, did not recollect her; she went out so
seldom! The old marchioness did not care, so she said, to be bothered
with a young spy who would be in her way when she related some of her
choice anecdotes.

Claire d’Arlange was just seventeen years old. She was extremely
graceful and gentle in manner, and lovely in her natural innocence. She
had a profusion of fine light brown hair, which fell in ringlets over
her well-shaped neck and shoulders. Her figure was still rather slender;
but her features recalled Guide’s most celestial faces. Her blue eyes,
shaded by long lashes of a hue darker than her hair, had above all an
adorable expression.

A certain air of antiquity, the result of her association with her
grandmother, added yet another charm to the young girl’s manner. She had
more sense, however, than her relative; and, as her education had not
been neglected, she had imbibed pretty correct ideas of the world in
which she lived. This education, these practical ideas, Claire owed
to her governess, upon whose shoulders the marchioness had thrown the
entire responsibility of cultivating her mind.

This governess, Mademoiselle Schmidt, chosen at hazard, happened by
the most fortunate chance to be both well informed and possessed of
principle. She was, what is often met with on the other side of
the Rhine, a woman at once romantic and practical, of the tenderest
sensibility and the severest virtue. This good woman, while she carried
her pupil into the land of sentimental phantasy and poetical imaginings,
gave her at the same time the most practical instruction in matters
relating to actual life. She revealed to Claire all the peculiarities
of thought and manner that rendered her grandmother so ridiculous, and
taught her to avoid them, but without ceasing to respect them.

Every evening, on arriving at Madame d’Arlange’s, M. Daburon was sure to
find Claire seated beside her grandmother, and it was for that that
he called. Whilst listening with an inattentive ear to the old lady’s
rigmaroles and her interminable anecdotes of the emigration, he gazed
upon Claire, as a fanatic upon his idol. Often in his ecstasy he forgot
where he was for the moment and became absolutely oblivious of the old
lady’s presence, although her shrill voice was piercing the tympanum
of his ear like a needle. Then he would answer her at cross-purposes,
committing the most singular blunders, which he labored afterwards to
explain. But he need not have taken the trouble. Madame d’Arlange did
not perceive her courtier’s absence of mind; her questions were of such
a length, that she did not care about the answers. Having a listener,
she was satisfied, provided that from time to time he gave signs of
life.

When obliged to sit down to play piquet, he cursed below his breath the
game and its detestable inventor. He paid no attention to his cards.
He made mistakes every moment, discarding what he should keep in
and forgetting to cut. The old lady was annoyed by these continual
distractions, but she did scruple to profit by them. She looked at the
discard, changed the cards which did not suit her, while she audaciously
scored points she never made, and pocketed the money thus won without
shame or remorse.

M. Daburon’s timidity was extreme, and Claire was unsociable to excess,
they therefore seldom spoke to each other. During the entire winter, the
magistrate did not directly address the young girl ten times; and, on
these rare occasions, he had learned mechanically by heart the phrase he
proposed to repeat to her, well knowing that, without this precaution,
he would most likely be unable to finish what he had to say.

But at least he saw her, he breathed the same air with her, he heard her
voice, whose pure and harmonious vibrations thrilled his very soul.

By constantly

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